Breaking vows
by Molleyn
Summary: A couple of mistakes leaves Rose stranded and the Doctor desperate to get her back. But even if he succeeds, will she forgive him? Drawings, bunnies, love seats and someone bumps their head. It ends well, I swear!
1. Chapter 1

1: Rose draws a picture.

Rose is sitting on the floor, tugging things out of her freshly restocked backpack. Clean t-shirts, socks and underwear are bursting out as she pulls at the densly packed contents. At the very bottom she finds the top she was looking for, the one with the funny print. A piece of paper comes up with it, something left and long forgotten from another life. She holds it up.

An old medical bill. She smirks.

"Dr Rajit Sengupta. Thirty quid. Well, Dr Raj, sorry to inform you we won't be needing your services anymore. Got another doctor now." She lets the bill sail to the floor and peeks into the depths of the backpack for anything else forgotten. Dust, a paperclip, a pen. She retrieves the latter. Reading the company logo on the pen's clip there's a feeling of familiarity, like she knows it. And she remembers: sitting on other floors, with that pen, sitting on benches and beaches and floors with that very pen and writing and doodling. She used to do it quite a lot during that period of awkward teen creativity. The corner of her mouth lifts.

It can't possibly still be working. Clicking it a few times she puts it to the paper that landed face down and tries it. A few ghost lines, empty of any colour, are imprinted on the surface. But then, suddenly, there it is. A sharp, effortless, evenly distributed dark blue line, and she lets out a pleased noise. She always did like this pen. It never let her down.

She wonders if she remembers how. Putting the tip to the undisturbed white she bites her lip, and gives it a try.

Head, torso, legs. That's about right, proportion wise. That's a person. A quite thin person.

Some clothes, maybe. A lab coat, in honour of Dr Raj.

Nah. It turned into an overcoat.

Hands are tricky. They go in the pockets.

The hair stands on end, the mouth smirks. Why is she not surprised.

She might as well make the eyes his while she's at it and admit she's drawn the Doctor. And it's not too bad, she's still got it; the lines, the principles of features. She chuckles, then hesitates for a second before shrugging and starting another figure next to his likeness. Shorter, feminine, shoulder-length hair. The grin is a bit wide but she compensates it with getting the rest of the face right. She gives herself a dress; why not. Kind of a... evening gown type dress. She saw something like this once, with the top like that, thought it would have made an amazing wedding dress.

And there it is. She's done it. Might as well draw the veil too, pulled back.

How stupid is that. She sits up and laughs at herself. Maybe her subconscious is trying to tell her something. As if, ever (_don't go there_). Or it's taken too strongly to the notion that she wants to keep travelling with the Doctor 'Forever'. Because that's what it is, isn't it? Tying the knot... That bond. Forever.

She stares at the drawing. There are two people, standing next to each other, and at least one of them has just promised to stay forevermore.

'Til death do us part'.

That's not forever, is it.

Til death do us part.

She adds the words above them, in hard, angry letters.

She's going to break her vow, that promise to never leave him alone. She's going to let him down no matter what, just by being what she is; a stupid, brittle, mortal, pathetic being. Helplessly, inevitably, she's going to be a quitter.

She balls the paper up and hurls it at the floor. The pen follows, more carefully (she still likes it) and she stands up, gathers an armful of clothing and goes to sulk in the closet down the hall.

"Rose! Which one do you like best-" The Doctor bursts into the room with an identical tie in each hand. "Rose?"

The room is empty. Well, empty of Rose. Full of other things. The disemboweled knapsack, defeated at his feet, scattered socks. A pair of lacy knickers, shamelessly strewn on the floor. A pen. A balled-up piece of paper. He pokes it with his foot.

He should pick it up.

No, he shouldn't.

Should he?

Too late. He did.

If she catches him examining her trash he'll just blame the influence of her human curiosity.

There's printed text on one side. Uninteresting. Hand drawn lines on the other. He pulls the creases apart and lets the image unfold.

There's a picture of a man. Looks quite like him, actually. That's funny. Last time anyone drew a picture of him he was captured on paper – literally. He doesn't think this is the case now, but you never know. At least this time he'd have some company, because there's a woman on there too – looks quite like Rose, actually.

It's a drawing of him and Rose! That's nice. He doesn't have any keepsakes like that, unless you want to count random surveillance photos lost on the web, and he'd rather not. This is more realistic, in some symbolic way, in that they're standing next to each other looking rather happy. For some reason it makes him feel a bit warm.

Quite warm.

A lot warm.

He carefully traces the lines of Rose's dress with a finger. He's never seen it on, she must have thought it up. And there's some kind of veil on top, like in one of those human wedding rituals.

That warmth seems to slowly creep up his neck until it feels like his cheeks are on fire. He feels a slight onset of vertigo, probably due to the not breathing.

But it's just wishful thinking.

She would never actually _consider_ him in that regard.

(Would she?)

After all, she crumpled the picture up and threw it away.

(He would.)

That must mean the whole idea was meaningless to her.

(Even though he shouldn't.)

There are words at the top, written with more pressure, a different feeling to the lines. 'Til death do us part'.

It's that traditional proclamation. Goes with the theme. But it's as if something changed between drawing and writing, as if some bad thought entered and led to the rejection of the entire project. He stares at the sharp letters. 'Til death'.

The heat fades, leaving something cold behind.

Is that what she thinks? That her mortality would be an obstacle for th... anything? Oh darl- ...Oh Rose.

He can see what she means. But he doesn't want to hear it. Not right now.

(Not this time.)

He folds the words back, out of sight. Giving the picture a last look he carefully evens out the creases across the paper with his thumbs. Then he folds the paper up, drawings face to face – it seems the right direction – and slides it into his breast pocket.

When Rose stomps back into the room the Doctor hastily fishes out the ties again, holding them up for judgement.

"Hi. What?"

"Which do you like?"

"What's the difference?"

"Rose! There's a world of difference! For example, this one... is at least... No, wait, it's this one, that's at least two shades... Um..." He squints his eyes at the ties and tries to remember the point of it all.

She stares at him.

"Wear them both."

His smile spreads from ear to ear and he proclaims her to be a genius as he throws his arms around her, but with his face behind her head, away from her eyes, he does find it a bit hard to breathe and for a moment his expression does turn a bit languish. He feels it, and it's why he holds on a bit too long.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I'm sorry, guys, I apparently posted this way before it was finished and had to take it down to change it. Here you go, tell me what you think! Better?

* * *

2: Rose makes a mistake

"I can't leave you alone for two seconds!"

"We thought it'd be funny..." Rose cowers in the barber chair.

"When you find yourself thrown into a parallel universe you don't go and make besties with your alter ego, Rose!" The Doctor fumes. "And you certainly don't go cut your hair the same way so that _I_ can't tell you _apart_!"

"It was just for a laugh", she says quietly, looking at her hands. Other Rose stands beside her, mouth a little open, looking uncertain. "Um..." she says. The Doctor looks at her. When she doesn't continue he raises his eyebrows demandingly. The Roses exchange desperate looks.

"We were just..."

"We didn't mean..."

"And it's not like..."

"We're still the same!"

"I mean different!"

The Doctor tries to hold on to his justified irritation, but they're too entertaining. Rose is brilliant in her own right, all by herself, but two of her, stumbling over each other to come up with excuses is just too funny. He finds himself filling up with joy again, crowding out that pesky agitation. It's probably not as big of a deal as he first thought, anyway. He feels his face cracking up and gives in to the grin.

"Alright, you." He holds out an arm, as if waiting for someone's shoulders to take residence under it. "I'm taking you out to dinner. Come on."

Rose lets out a smiley breath of relief and jumps out of the chair. But she stops, hesitating. Carefully, she asks: "Can she come?"

Other Rose straightens and looks hopeful.

The big No in the Doctor's head reaches his lips and almost makes it out, but their faces stops it in its tracks. How can he deny the heart's desire of his hearts' de... li'l old friend there? Especially when there are two of her, looking at him like that. He rolls his eyes.

"Fine."

Other Rose squeaks happily as Rose hooks her arm with hers with a big smile. Following the Doctor out on the street towards that place they saw before, Rose tries to shake off how much it had hurt just then, having him mad at her. Having the Doctor actually _yell_ at her. Having him think her so stupid. She'd never felt so dumb in her life. If she could choose one thing in the world it would be for him to be proud of her, and the brief encounter with the opposite still tears at something inside.

It's alright now though, she thinks, walking right behind him with Other Rose in complete sync with her own steps. His shoulders relaxed, hands in his pockets, neck craned to look up at the heavy aerotraffic. He's fine. They're fine.

She'll just have to never do anything stupid, ever again.

In the quiet restaurant she listens to Other Rose explain the political situation in her London, talks to her animatedly about Mrs Dillinger from fourth grade and contemplates how strange it is to meet oneself – to actually meet, and talk and hang out with oneself, them being you but still separate, same life but different details and it's all very mind-boggling. She also notes how the Doctor is watching them, peeking over his coffee cup with a strange look in his eyes.

"What?" She stares back, feeling rather cheeky. She would love to be the confuser rather than the confusee for once, even if it did come about by astronomic accidents and (according to the Doctor) bad decisions.

"What what?" The Doctor takes a gulp of coffee and puts the cup down.

"Is there something on your mind?" She leans forward with that slightly teasing expression that often plays on her face.

"Nah, nah... I'm just waiting to see if your co-existing will stir up enough background antimatter surges to have you implode into each other", he explains, matter-of-factly. But Rose's horrified face about to burst into tears pinches his conscience and his pokerface soon ruptures into a great grin.

"Just teasin'!"

Rose huffs, flicks at him, misses, and turns back to Other Rose.

"See? He's always like this. One time when..."

Actually, the Doctor is watching them trying to get a grasp of what he is feeling at the moment. There is something of an overwhelmed quality to it, tinted with entertainment, and a hint of jealosy. He would have much preferred both Roses' eyes on him, instead of on each other (just as he much prefers singular Rose's eyes on him rather than anyone else), but he decides it's mostly an enjoyable feeling. He is also trying to find the little details that will tell two versions of the same person apart. Tiny shifts in body language, expressions, reactions, derived from living through different possible experiences in the same life. And though they are miniscule, they are there. Rose's lips are slightly more easily drawn into a smile, Other Rose tends to emphasise her sarcasms with a twitch of an eyebrow. A few tiny, miniscule things. They are very much the same though...

"Look, he's doing it again." Rose nods towards the Doctor. "Wonder what he's thinking."

"If you're worried about telling us apart, I could always get a goatee", says Other Rose.

"Be the evil one!" Rose thinks this is the best idea anyone has had in years and they howl with laughter.

"No need", the Doctor says, but is ignored. When the Roses are done making evil twin-jokes, Other Rose turns to him to continue the conversation.

"So, Doctor, what were you saying about the..."

Rose is having so much fun with her alter ego. To her, Other Rose seems cooler, more in control, than herself. Just the fact that she didn't scream and run when they physically bumped into each other outside Tesco is incredible, but that she didn't call the police when Rose told her she was from a different reality is amazing. And when she told her, during that very long walk with those very big slushies, about other worlds and time travels, and the girl didn't freak out completely – well, that's just simply outstanding.

And she told her about the Doctor. Of course she told her. She was talking to herself! She couldn't not tell herself about her own best friend, the most important person in the world (in hers, in _any)._ The wanderer, the adventurer, the hero. The one she cannot imagine living without anymore, but who Other Rose never heard of.

To be a Rose, but not have a Doctor.

What a meaningless half of a life.

Other Rose had been very curious about it all, with some reservations at first, but as their aquiantance proceeded more and more trustingly. Rose kept proving her story with facts from their shared life until there was nothing left but to believe, and she told Other Rose about every adventure she could remember and every detail she could think of regarding the Doctor and his Tardis. She tried to convey her own excitement about wandering the universe, always coming across new worlds and new beings, and Other Rose seemed very smitten.

Now, having dinner with Rose and the Doctor, she wants to know more about the ship, the travels, the strange other worlds they've seen. But she seems interested in the Doctor himself as well, in a way that creates a little nagging, writhing feeling in the pit of Rose's stomach. She feels strange about the way Other Rose leans forward with a cheeky grin, about the way Other Rose looks him in the eyes when she speaks to him, about the way Other Rose does anything that Rose would do herself and that she is perfectly and naturally entitled to do. Meaning, since Rose does them all the time. Act like herself, that is. Around the Doctor. Her friend the Doctor. Her best friend. Her amazing, quirky, admittedly extremely charming and foxy friend whom she sometimes finds herself looking a little too long at, whom she every once in a while wakes up from a dream about that she wouldn't tell her mother of. Or him.

But that's fine. Other Rose isn't doing anything wrong. She's just interested, that's all. (Too interested?) It's just that Rose feels strange about sharing the Doctor's attention with this particular rival – not that she ever has all of it anyway, he's always distracted by his own ramblings or some rock on the ground.

So it's fine. She's not jealous of her other self.

That would be silly.


	3. Chapter 3

3: The Doctor makes a mistake

When the riots start, they run.

There is teargas, shrapnel, gunshots, dust settling on the streets only to be torn up again when a new wave passes. On a momentarily empty street glass crunches underneath the Doctor's hurrying feet as he dials Rose's phone, again and again, until he finally hears the click on the other side that means she has picked up and yells before she can answer: "Get to the Tardis!"

There is a sickening moment of silence, before she yells back: "I can't remember where you parked it!"

The Doctor's voice pitches up. "Gh... Behind the bleedin' barber shop!"

"Alright, alright..." In this time of panic, she still finds it in her to sound indignant. "No need to get huffy about it." Good girl.

The Doctor gets there first. The roar of angry masses, shattering windows and car fires is muffled by the buildings towering around this backstreet and he is glad no mob has found an interest in this particular venue. The destruction raging around him makes him a bit sad, but this is not his fight; it's something these people will have to work out on their own. He spends a second spinning around, looking for his companion, but as she's nowhere to be seen he enters the ship with pockets full of apparatus re-stolen from the Torchwood facilities. No Manic Street Preachers in this world, but they managed a Torchwood... go figure. He pulls a doohickey out of his coat, inspects it closely with squinted eyes and throws it over his shoulder with an exasperated grunt. The next thingamajig he fishes out however generates a happy face and he quickly takes to rigging it in an ingenious way he thought up on the way over. A few moments into the process he drops it all, darts out the door to look around, then back in again. He repeats the ritual, growing a little bit more worried each time, until he finally sees his best human running up to the Tardis from the other end of the street. She looks as if someone showered her in pulverized concrete, but alive and well, and she takes a moment to rest her hands on her knees outside the door, panting heavily.

"What took you? I thought you were just going to say bye!" the Doctor complains. Rose looks up, trying to get some words out with the deep breaths. "Weh... Ih..."

Not having the patience for this, the Doctor goes happy again, grabs her elbow and pulls her inside. "Never mind, we've got work to do."

After a few chaotic minutes of shouting and running around, on the Doctor's part, and trying to do what she's told on Rose's, they're both holding on for dear life as the Tardis struggles with the makeshift upgrade that is supposed to help them in the right direction. Sparks are flying from some crucial panel, the grate is rattling as if it's about to come off and the Doctor spends a second wondering if it's really going to work. He looks over to Rose where she's clinging to a column and catches her eyes. There is worry in them, almost fear. Taut jaw, apprehensive features... She's not completely convinced either, it seems, that it's going to work. The insolence of her doubt burrows into him, deflating any of his own. How dare she not be completely convinced it's going to work? Of course it's going to work! He's the Doctor! He shoots her a smile of utmost confidence. Hesitantly she tries to return it; it doesn't quite reach her eyes but it's enough to soften her expression into something a little less precarious.

And then, there it is; an abrupt end to the shaking and breaking, too sudden to be easily trusted so Rose holds on for a while longer while the Doctor laughs victoriously.

"We did it, Rose!" He throws his arms up. "We're home! Well, home... In the right dimension, anyway." He remains in the pose while Rose slowly lets go of the column and takes a deep breath.

"Phew! Ya-ay", she laughs joylessly and wipes her sweaty palms on the back of her jeans, only to get them covered by concrete dust. She tries to wipe them on each other, looking around as if she's not sure of where she is. The Doctor, who is still waiting for his victory-hug, lets his arms fall to his sides.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine", she answers with a wave of her hand. There is nothing believable about it, so the Doctor gives her a meaning look. She realises there's no point of faking and leans back on the column, looking at the floor, at the walls, other places than at him. He waits.

"I feel bad, about... the other me", she offers after a while.

"Ah, Rose..." he starts softly, tilting his head. She looks up, interrupting him.

"I feel really bad about leaving her there! There was so much going on... She could get hurt, or..." She swallows.

He steps closer.

"Too late now. There's nothing to do. We can't go back." He reaches out and cups her shoulders, looking at her intently, willing her to understand that sometimes – just sometimes – she mustn't care. She won't meet his eyes, until he cheerily exclaims: "At least now you don't have to take a picture to know what you look like from behind!" which he immediately regrets as he's hit by a wildly insulted stare. "Oh, she'll manage fine. She's you!" he tries.

Rose's eyes glaze over with something undefinable. Unfamiliar, eerie – _empty_. Empty glaze, underneath; sad turmoil.

The Doctor is starting to feel a bit bad himself. Just a tad. A teeny, tiny bit of desperate. "Would you like to go home?" he asks, fully prepared to take a hundred beatings from Jackie for upsetting her little girl if it's what it takes to get _that_ look off of _that_ face.

"What? No! No..." Rose is all frowns, distracted contemplation. "Let's just..." She brings her hand to her face, touching her palm to her cheek, the back of it to her forehead. It leaves dirty streaks. "Let's just... go somewhere nice."

"Right." The Doctor smiles. He gives her shoulders a squeeze, hesitating just a second before letting go since somewhere inside he's still waiting for that hug, and starts walking briskly around the consoles talking about their options.

"...even if the fire storms might be a problem. But oh! the colours, Rose! You'll have to try and name every one of them, I bet you can't. So that'll be our first stop – although..." He stands still for a second, glancing her over. "First stop for you, maybe the shower?"

A look of complete confusion takes over Rose's grimy face before she finds her composure, turns to regard the only exit, and takes it.

The Doctor's gaze lingers at the empty doorway. He shakes a feeling, and goes back to setting coordinates.

* * *

A/N: I wonder if this is very different from what I've been writing so far, or if it goes with it. R&R, because that's love! Also, if you missed the update of chapter two I suggest you check it out, it's a little altered.


	4. Chapter 4

4: Rose takes a nap

The Doctor loiters around the Tardis. A stroll through the library, a walk down memory lane. Peering out of the window for a while, taking a swing at some cricket balls in the kitchen.

He's bored.

They had a very nice trip to Agh'auh (yes, pronounced much like he feels), where Rose ran around gawking at the fantastic display of colours in the air as different gases reacted in ways he was explaining to deaf ears. As he so often does. She never seems to have the will to concentrate for his excellent explanations, but goes off to look at furry animals or damsels in distress or some such instead, but then again, he is prone to putting a little more detail into it than her tiny human brain can be expected to comprehend.

Anyway, they had been having a grand old time, laughing and talking and looking around. Rose had seemed to cheer up, first clearing her mind with that long shower and then going back to her easy going self on the new pretty planet. They spent hours running across grassy fields, walking along winding paths and sitting on the bank of a bubbling creek, throwing rocks in the water. Rose had been fine.

But when they returned to the ship for a cup of tea, she didn't want to play a game of Cake or Death afterwards. Or even sit down in the study for a bit of a talk. She just claimed exhaustion and went straight to bed. Which leaves him here, alone and bored.

Now, laying down on his back in the console room and sticking his head into an opening in the wall to get to a loose wire, he thinks it's all fine and dandy. He can wait the approximately one _billion_ and three minutes it will probably take before she wakes up and wants to do something fun again. He has plenty of tinkering with the Tardis to do.

But for some reason, a part of his mind can't stop lingering around how her hand had slipped from his so easily. When they stepped out of the ship, onto the sticky grass of Agh'auh. He took her hand in his, like he always does when she doesn't beat him to it; they stepped outside and Rose gasped and made big eyes and looked around and took a few steps and sort of... just... let go.

She is obviously not fine. Talking and laughing and all things cheery, but she's not fine. No holding a tight grip around his fingers to not break their link when he starts running towards something interesting (as if he would ever run off and disappear. Well... Alright, maybe it's a good thing she holds on. Well... Not maybe. He likes that link. Most of the times he's the one upholding it rather fiercly)? No after-tea games? And then going straight to bed? She's obviously still upset about leaving Other Rose in her world to fend for herself, but is trying to put up a facade of indifference. To think that she would try to hide anything from him – her best friend, her companion, the one who- ...rather annoys the Doctor.

She's in her room. He has half a mind to go in there and confront her about it. And, being a brilliant Timelord, half of his mind is more than enough for anything and suddenly he finds himself outside her door with his fist raised and ready.

He doesn't knock. Perhaps he doesn't want to disturb her, should she be fast asleep. Perhaps there is something else. But he doesn't knock. Instead, he gently opens the door, braces himself for a second and slips in silently.

The room is dark, except for the soft glow of a small bedside lamp. The Doctor takes a few slow steps towards the large bed, full of pillows and blankets and other fluffy attire that Rose likes to immerse herself in when she sleeps. His foot comes across the blue, embroidered pillow that she bought at the Hhufrrur market because it reminded her of her granddad. He leans down to pick it up, wondering what it's doing on the floor. Tilting his head slightly, he looks at the loudly breathing figure splayed in the middle of the bed. She is unceremoniously plopped down on top of the covers and spread out, with one arm across her face and completely out of it.

She must have been dead tired.

He listens to the air entering and leaving her lungs in rythmic waves, with the slight whirl around the scar from her tonsillectomy. If he listens close enough, he can hear her heartbeat. A steady, consoling thump-thump that he shouldn't find himself tuning in on as often as he does. When it's quiet enough, calm enough, sitting around in a rare moment of content silence listening to her heartbeat feels like an extra insurance that she's still there, _with_ him, but it's such an intimate sound and he's not sure she would appreciate it, should he tell her.

He shakes it off, physically giving his head a shake, and sighs. He tilts his head the other way and wonders why she won't tell him about it, if she's upset. She should tell him everything. He tells her everything.

(No, he doesn't.)

Preferably everything in the world, but at least everything that matters.

It's not like he wouldn't listen.

It's not like he wouldn't care.

And he certainly wouldn't, if that's what she thinks, deny her her feelings by stating she shouldn't have them. He may not know exactly what it's like to suddenly be around your closer-than-twins twin, only to suddenly abandon her to an unknown fate like a full-body amputation, and he may press the fact that there is nothing to be done about it now. But he very well understands what it is to feel.

(Oh, does he ever.)

And sometimes, you just need to... let it out.

He steps closer to the bed, gaze fixed on the slightly parted lips below the elbow covering the rest of Rose's face. He rests briefly on the question of their taste sans lipstick, then mentally kicks himself bone-breakingly hard in the shin.

Then it all happens so fast.

An interrupted breath, a snort. An arm lifted, eyes opened. A shocked shout that shatters the silence like a grenade and stops his hearts. The Doctor shouts back, and the pillow he hasn't realised he's been hugging tightly flies up in the air and bounces off his flailing hands a few times before he manages to secure it again.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Rose yells, scrambling to sit up.

"What?" the Doctor yells back. "I'm- ...Not- ...What are you doing in here?" Rose gives him a wide-eyed stare. "I mean... Time to get up!" He pulls the corners of his mouth apart to plaster a grin over the heartattack. "Time to... get going somewhere." When she doesn't respond he finds his composure. "Oh get a grip, Rose, it's just me. What do you want for breakfast?"

Rose's mouth opens and closes a couple of times before she meekly answers. "I don't know... The usual?"

"Right! Off I go then."

He quickly leaves with the blue pillow still in a tight embrace, considers going back to return it but decides against it, feeling that the horrified expression on his face needs to stay uncensored for a while longer. That was not a turn of events he had imagined for _that_ scenario (not that he has, ever, imagined that scenario. Rose, dark, bed- Have not!). There was something so completely wrong with it all, so wrong that a thought he hasn't had because it can't exist because it mustn't be because if it does his life is over – _that_ thought seeps into his mind.

During a slightly awkward breakfast the Doctor tries to calm down. Rose is munching on a piece of toast, which is perfectly normal. She adds a bit of milk to her tea, which is perfectly normal. She spills crumbs everywhere, which is perfectly normal. She talks about football, which is... well. Sort of new.

"Do you remember that game we saw where each of the three teams had to sacrifice a goalie to the others before it could begin?" he asks, smiling over his cup. Rose's face scrunches up in a withheld giggle before she can vacate her mouth of bread.

"I know, that was hilarious, right?"

He reaches for another piece of toast. "Really? I'm pretty sure you were kind of upset about that."

"Oh... well... In retrospect it's kind of funny though..." Rose takes another mouthful, chewing thoughtfully.

"Yes, I suppose." The Doctor spreads a thick layer of jam over his toast. "Forgive and forget, eh?"

"Right! It's like, um, a waste of energy, you know. You can't care too much about stuff. Someone does something, you get over it, you move on. Forgive and forget."

The Doctor licks the jam off his thumb. "So you forgive and forget that I tried to send you away that time?"

Rose looks at him. "You know I do. Long as you don't do it again." She takes a sip of tea.

"And you forgive and forget that I didn't let you keep that unicorn from Erythrocythea you loved so much?"

"Benji? He would have just made a mess all over the place!"

"And you forgive and forget that I took that picture you drew of us?" The words are out of his mouth before he knows it and his throat constricts as he realises he just spilled that thing that he wasn't supposed to spill. Keeping a straight face he downs his tea.

Rose stares at him. For a painful second he fears she's going to try to kill him, or laugh at him or both, not knowing who would be more embarrassed – her for drawing the picture or him for taking it. The next second he spends wishing for dear life that she _will_ kill him and laugh at him and chastise him for all eternity for doing such a weird and invasive thing, because it's what he thinks Rose would do. Then again, he can't be sure.

Rose purses her lips and shrugs her shoulders with a lift of her eyebrows. "Whatever."

That's not right. Is it? The Doctor sets his cup down, gently, breaths for a moment and then looks up, all smiles. "Right then. Good." She could have forgotten all about it. Or she could just not care about it, which he finds surprisingly hard to imagine. It's as if he _wants_ her to feel embarrassed about the sodding picture. "Good. Because I thought you might have wanted to keep that to yourself." Cor, why is he still speaking of this?

"Well", she says, and now there's a becoming blush to her cheeks, "you could give it back. If you don't mind."

"Of course! Well, if I can find it. Probably lost it somewhere. With all the mixing and mingling", the Doctor rambles as ge gets up and clears the table, clings on to his waning hope and suggests a trip to sunnier pastures.

They lie on their backs on his coat in the grass, looking up at the sky that looks just like the one on Earth. There are a few clouds chasing by, a slight breeze across the meadow. He turns his head to look at her.

"Do you still feel bad about the parallel you?"

Rose has her eyes closed to the sun, a light smile playing on her face. "Not really... It's like you said, there ain't nothing we can do about it so why bother, eh. 'Cause we can't go back and help her anyway, right?"

"No, we can't. It's physically impossible. Besides, even if we could, we couldn't. It would destroy the universe."

"Well, there you have it then."

A few seconds pass while he keeps his eyes on her face, searching.

"You're not the right Alice", he states. She turns to him, squinting to the light.

"What?"

He turns his head back, looking at a pillow-shaped cloud. "You know, that book. Alice in Wonderland."

"Oh, right." She smiles crookedly. "I love that story."

"They'll be coming out with a movie in a year or two."

"Yeah? Is it any good?"

"Nah..." he drawls, chin jutting out. "Not enough romance."

"Hm."

After a few seconds of stillness, he stands up. Towering above her he regards her coldly.

"Get up."

Rose looks confused. "We going somewhere?"

"Back to the Tardis." He leans down for his coat and almost tugs it out from underneath her. He starts walking and she has to take a few running steps to catch up with his long, determined strides.

"Why?" she calls, sounding annoyed. He doesn't look back to answer.

"Like I said. You're not the right Alice."

* * *

A/N: With winks to LauraXTennant (See! If you REVIEW enough you could get your will done!)


	5. Chapter 5

4: The Doctor gives a damn

Yep. He's going to have to blow up that star.

Creating a supernova, ripping a hole through time and space, risking an implosion of... well, universal proportion – he'll do it.

He'll do for her.

For her, he will tear down the skies, crumble the walls, lay the stuff of the world to waste. It doesn't matter. He'll do it, because there is simply no other option.

Because that girl there, that's not Rose.

It is, of course, but it's not _his_ Rose, the Rose that _he_...

He knows that now. He's been travelling with an impostor, a copy, a watered down replica of the human he sort of likes best and the real thing is left back in that parallel world.

So, he's going to have to blow up that star.

There's more to it than that, of course. There is: the matter of spotting the exakt version of the truth; that is, land in the one possible reality of legion that holds the world in which Rose is now. There is: the matter of keeping a rift open between the two worlds for long enough to make it there and back, but short enough to reduce the risk of all of cosmos going to hell. There is: the question of whether to lock Stupid Bogus-Rose in the bathroom or let her roam free around his dear Tardis while he works.

"You don't understand", she says when he's been staring at her for a while without speaking. "It wasn't meant to happen, it just... sort of did." She pushes her toes to the floor, rocking the chair lightly. "I didn't mean to- ...We were at the shops, there was such mayhem, you saw it. I think it was the militia..." She looks somewhere far away, lost in thought for a moment. "Anyway, there was a blast."

He blinks.

"Right above us, tore the whole wall open. I think she must've gotten slammed in the head 'cause then she was just laying there. Brick in the head or something. I couldn't wake her up. And her phone just kept ringing and ringing and I just... I picked it up."

From the other side of the room the Doctor leans in, as if he didn't quite catch that.

"You left her unconscious? You left her unconscious and ran?"

Stinking Treason-Rose opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. Her eyes twitch, she bites her hand. She draws the air in deep and lets the words out in one quiet breath. "Must be the shittiest thing I've ever done."

"Must be!" the Doctor agrees. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing his fingernails into his scalp until it hurts, and paces.

"You don't understand", she repeats, tears rolling down her cheeks now. "You don't know how... You think those riots were bad? They're only the beginning!" The desperation grows in her voice, tinted by the underlying anger. "My whole country's going to collapse! It's been brewing forever, all the corruption and dodgy politics, people aren't going to take it anymore. There's going to be war! And all my friends..." She sniffles, tries to regain calm. "All my friends are in the resistance." She gives him an intense stare. "I'll go to prison just for knowing them. Or I could just... disappear."

He stares back.

"So you left her! _My_-" He bites the inside of his lip. "In your place. Not even knowing if she's dead or alive."

"I really am sorry", she says to the floor. "I can see how much you-"

"Care", he snarls. Then he restrains himself, because he knows she means it. She is, after all, a Rose. Not the best version, admittedly... Maybe he could keep it and train it to be almost like the right one, that way he wouldn't have to risk so much destruction clawing his way through parallel worlds in search for Her.

As if, ever.

* * *

"Ideally we'd wait for it to turn pulsar on its own but we've enough with the spatial dislocation, no need to add any chronical complications by going forth in time, and then back, and then maybe not forth but... well, you know", the Doctor rambles, and for a moment it almost feels like home. But while he's swiftly moving about the consoles, pulling levers and pointing to things for Ugly... er... Dodgy Coward-Rose to push, and she's obediently trying, she gives the impression that her heart's not completely in it. Her familiar face lacks that excited glow.

He hardly knows what he's doing himself. This is so beyond, so far out of everything; he only has half an idea of how the space station (it can hardly be called hijacking if the thing's abandoned) relates to the phishline, and the proton accelerator seems a little out of place right there, but he lets his mind go searching for what his people hold in their legacy, and works.

And in the end, it all comes together – the energy, the vortex, the crumbling walls. The trembling of reality jostles them violently and he silently begs the Tardis to hold together, just for that little while, just until he's close enough, just so long that he can reach out and touch her and then it can break into as many pieces as it wants.

Upon appearing it actually doesn't break all that much. A few bits go flying, some are fried, and a leak springs in the kitchen, but all in all it's still holding up. Momentarily, at least. To completely materialize in the new dimension will close the gap behind them; the battered ship needs to stay short of the end of the corridor and this open, sizzling wound in time and space is what threatens to collapse said time and space. Stumbling out the door with his phone in hand the Doctor turns to consider the strangely glowing, vibrating, in-and-out of sight Tardis. Fifteen minutes, perhaps, give or take. Fifteen minutes to find Rose, in London, in turmoil.

But hey. He's the Doctor.

Now, if Rose is Rose, she'll have her phone around and be very traceable. She'll probably even have it switched on. Unless she's...

Anger flares up in place of that thought and he waits impatiently for Fraidycat Deserter-Rose to timidly step out of the blue box. He leans over and slams the door shut behind her, an involuntary growl slipping from the back of his throat, and turns to his phone. Dialing the pattern so familiar he doesn't need to look, he shortly deducts that Rose's phone is not switched on, but indeed operational and blessedly close. He activates a remote homing-signal to raise its holder's attention and starts walking.

* * *

For the moment the streets are tired and empty, save for the dust and debris. Something makes its way into the deceptive peace; a heartbeat, a beckoning. A tiny, blinking dot. It calls to her, and Rose follows.

* * *

"I'm scared", Simply Wrong-Rose states, scurrying behind the Doctor's determined steps.

"Aren't we all", he says to the display on his phone. "Well... Not me, obviously..." He stops to look around, comparing map and scenery, and continues to turn a corner. "But everyone else is. It's part of the human condition. What makes the difference is how you act on your fear. Without fear, you see, Rose... ish... there is no bravery."

"But what's going to happen to me?"

"It'll be what you make of it", he mutters, and keeps walking.

Then he sees her.

At the end of the street, there she is.

Rose.

Genuine Rose, living Rose, standing up with what looks like all major limbs intact (he'll count fingers and toes later). Actual, factual Rose and the sudden lightness in his chest lifts his feet off the ground. They pick up the pace all on their own and after a few steps he starts jogging, but it's not getting him there fast enough; he starts running, and as he closes in his arms are opening up; he can already feel her precious body pressed against his in the longest, tightest embrace he will ever give her. His face is splitting into a giant smile for the first time in what feels like years.

She's not coming to meet him.

He slows down.

He slows down, because there is something wrong. He slows down, because Rose – Right Rose, Brilliant Beauty-Rose – isn't coming to meet him. She's standing still, looking at him, expressionless. He closes the distance and stops in front of her.

"Rose!" he tries. His smile falters when she doesn't return it.

She looks haggard. Her hair is pulled back in an unbrushed ponytail, there are dirty streaks across her face. Her clothes, which he doesn't recognise, are worn and speckled with soot. Her eyes are hollow and tired; she looks absent, as if she doesn't really believe he's there, as if he's a tiresome transparent image that she is used to ignoring.

And the assault rifle resting naturally on her back is too heavy for her, making her shoulders slump unevenly.

His face falls, his shoulders fall, his guts fall. She blinks. He doesn't know what to ask, where to start, and after a million heartbeats she beats him to it:

"Three months."

He tries to catch her eyes but they won't come all the way up to his.

"Three months... Doctor, three months. I've been here for..." She turns her head, her voice trails off. Then she turns back, trying hard to look at him straight, as if through a haze.

"You left me here."

Something gets stuck in his throat. His breath, his life.

"You left me here. You left me-" she repeats, the indifferent expression finally shattering as her brow furrows, her eyes squint together, her lips pull into a grimace. She raises a loosly clenched fist and hesitantly slams it down on his chest, then grasps the lapel of his coat. "You left me here."

"I came back", he forces out with the breath from his lungs, because he did, he came back, after five days he came back, five Earth-days of strange feelings of something missing and building amazing dimension-travel contraptions... Five days.

Moving between worlds is hard to make an exact science.

He begins to whisper her name, but loses her attention to Wrong Rose, quietly coming up beside him. Rose's hand falls from his coat as she turns to stare at her copy.

"You."

Other Rose ogles her, curiosity mingling with the horror. "What happened to you?"

Rose eyes her up and down. Clean, pink-cheeked and filling out her favourite jeans with the weight she's lost herself Other Rose reminds her of something long gone, of a dream.

There's a barely noticeable howl on the wind.

"Here." She slides out of the strap across her shoulder and holds out her weapon in one fluent motion. Other Rose slowly reaches out and takes it, confused. "You've been heading cells fourteen and eighteen, and organising overall communications within the southern district." Her voice is matter-of-factly cold, the indifference back with a hard edge. "Ralph's dead. Hannah's dead. Jameson's..." She motions to look at her wrist but there is no watch on it; she rubs it with her other hand. "...probably dead, by now..."

Other Rose gapes, not knowing how to react to the unwanted debriefing. But her eyes tear up and spill over, silently.

There's a barely noticable tremor in the ground.

"Rose..." The Doctor's voice is a hoarse whisper. "We need to go."

Rose snaps her head back at him. She nods, suddenly a look of nervousness in her eyes as she gazes past his shoulder. She brushes past him and starts along the way he came from. The Doctor glances at Other Rose, engaged in a blurred staring contest with the AK-107 hanging from the strap in her hand, turns on his heel and follows.

Not too many steps are taken before Other Rose wakes from the initial shock and calls out to them. "You can't leave me here!"

"This is your home", the Doctor calls back without turning.

"But I can't do this!"

Rose makes a swift turn-about and stomps back. She pushes the weapon in Other Rose's offering hands back into her chest and proclaims, sternly but not very supportively: "Yes, you can." Turning and leaving once again she mutters: "At least I sure as hell won't."

The howl on the wind surges into a short siren and a few windows are blown out. The shards of glass raining down on Other Rose have her indignantly wail and give it one more try.

"Stop! Please! Stop, or I'll..."

Rose spins around and keeps walking, backwards, holding out her arms to Other Rose pointing her old weapon at her. She raises her eyebrows, defiantly, challenging her adversary to take action. "Or what?"

Other Rose stands frozen, fallen apart. Rose offers her target for a few more steps and then turns the right direction, arms falling to her sides. The Doctor suddenly lets a noise slip. Rose didn't hear, but knows, what caused it.

"Safety's on."

The Doctor shoots her a very alarmed look.

"Don't worry, she'll figure it out."

"That's what I'm worried about!"

"Don't worry, takes her twenty minutes."

The ground shakes, nudging them sideways. A chair goes flying by, tinted with an unearthly glow, taking the lead on the way towards the time-and-space wound.

"Better hurry up", says the Doctor and takes Rose's hand as they pick up the pace. His own hand aches from how hers stays listless in his grasp, without squeezing back.

The Tardis is the flickering eye of the storm when they reach it. The surrounding buildings are well on their way to becoming completely disassembled, brick by brick torn away and sucked into the awaiting maelstrom growing around it. Taking aim on the entrance from a straight angle they make a run for it, land pressed against the door and the Doctor gets his key out. As they stumble inside, into relative safety, his grip on her hand loosens and it limply slides out of his grasp. He swallows the thoughts he doesn't have time for and goes to steer them free of the to the universe intolerable tear, back home.

* * *

A/N: For your evening pleasure, read "Hers lies listless" out loud as many times as you want. And I hope you enjoy the angst, because there's more coming up, I'm told.


	6. Chapter 6

6: Rose breaks a bowl

When the Tardis finally calms down back in Universe Proper, Rose leans back on a column, looking lost and tired. The Doctor watches her from his station, with an annoying twitch of worry polluting his relief. And a hint of deja vu.

"Are you alright?"

Rose shrugs.

He steps closer, waiting for words.

"I feel bad, about... the other me." Rose looks at a spot on the wall. "It's hard out there, she'll probably get hurt, or..."

"Ah, Rose..." the Doctor starts, but then frowns when he realises he's had this conversation before. Nevertheless, he closes in and reaches out to gently hold her shoulders, because it felt right the last time. But this time, instead of trying to comfort her he simply states the fact.

"I don't care."

"How can you not care?" Her eyes shoot up at him, flashing offense. "She's me!"

He shuts his eyes for a second to subdue the frustration. "That's the thing – she's not! If she was I could've just left you there and kept her, wouldn't have made a difference! But you make all the difference, Rose-"

Rose looks past him. "Yeah, well. Maybe you should've left me." She closes her fingers around her left wrist, rubbing it absently. "All those people... I hope she can cope. It's a lot of work."

A crooked smile escapes him. "Just like you to go off and start a revolution. Can't leave you alone for two seconds."

"It wasn't two seconds", she mumbles. She stops herself then, holding her breath, only letting it go once she's turned around and is walking off, leaving his falling spirit and empty arms behind.

...

Sometimes the Doctor wishes he wasn't such an observant and empathic creature.

Floating through the cosmos that didn't go to hell in the ship that wasn't torn to shreds he takes to mopping up in the kitchen. And he observes, keenly, that Rose isn't around. Which is fine, except for how the observation keeps emphasising the vacancy until the kitchen feels like a cathedral. He also empathises, strongly, with her need to be alone for a while. But the empathising is also tying tight knots around all of his inner organs and it's really kind of hurtful.

He left Rose and disappeared for three months.

He left Rose, unconscious, in a heap of rubble, and disappeared for three months.

He left Rose, unconscious, in a heap of rubble, in the wrong sodding world, and when she woke up he was gone, flown off with another version of her, leaving no sign of ever returning.

How frightened she must have been. How lonely. And how very, very angry with him...

Although, to his defense, he did have absolutely no way of knowing. No way of telling. Not within those defining seconds of departure. All he saw was everything important running up to him and joining him in the Tardis, and off they were, just like normal.

It didn't take him all that long to figure it out. To feel that something was off, not right, not... her. But it still kills him that it took any time at all, that he made a mistake, that he didn't just _know_. Not knowing lost him five days, but it cost her ninety, roughly – ninety days of being stranded in a bit of a warzone, with all that entails. And then some, apparently.

But he _couldn't_ have known. Could he?

If only they hadn't pulled that prank, making those subtle changes to their hair to look the same. Or called each other to synchronise their outfits that morning. Thoughtless chickens.

Or if only she hadn't wandered into that particular part of town and run into her other self. Such bad luck that was.

Better yet, if only he hadn't allowed them outside the Tardis at all, once he realised they had shifted realities. Stupid. Simply stupid.

Actually, if only he hadn't flown them so close to that damned singularity while that radiation wave was passing starboard-wise and the optical array-circuit felt a little stuck, from the start. Typical beginner's mistake! What did he think was going to happen, a normal everyday time-and-space trip? Obviously not! Cor, he can't believe he did that. He caused this, he made this happen.

The Doctor has been staring at the puddle of blue liquid on the floor for a while, knuckles white around the mop shaft, when the simmering in his head is interrupted by the ring of a crash.

...

Standing in her old room, feet in firm contact with the floor, Rose is still not sure it's real. There it is, her bed, her bag, her things, her mess. Except she hasn't slept in that bed since the dawn of time, and she hasn't had her things in forever.

It should feel as though nothing has changed since the last time she saw this place. It should be familiar, comfortable, and yet she feels a stranger. She remembers exactly how she left it, the image revoked in her mind a thousand times, and there are small differences – her bed in another kind of disarray, little things rearranged. But that's not it.

There is something alien about this place.

It's so quiet.

She inhales, slowly. The scent of home that lies just outside conscious grasp is still there, but distant, barely touching her. She closes her eyes and tries to listen to the quiet murmur of the Tardis, tries to open up to the possibility of being there and to the silence. She hears a soft creaking in the wall from its settling. There is the low whirr of a machine, from somewhere deep within the ship. But the sounds are so untangible, the absence of noise seems to swell until her own breathing is a loud rasping in her head. There are no helicopters here, the ever-present helicopters, there is no engine roar passing by every other minute, no crackling radio systems like white noise in the background. No whining and moaning, no crying, no singing. No banging on pipes that are only randomly distributing water.

It should be peaceful. It's not.

The silence is so heavy now, weighing down on her, filling her head with a soundless ringing together with the memories of the sounds that occupied it constantly up until a mere hour ago. She puts her hands to her ears as if that could shut the feeling out, but it rather closes it in. She looks at her things, clothes and books and trinkets, sitting around as if nothing has changed, as if everything is fine and dandy and before it has time to escape she steps up to the crockery bowl from the farmer's market at Erythrocythea, snatches it up and hurls it at the floor.

...

Before the echo of the first shattering dies out the Doctor is in the doorway. He finds Rose with one hand in her hair and the other grasping for anything that can be thrown, preferably anything that would break but pillows and pencils aren't discriminated against. He evaluates the situation hanging on to the doorframe, then continues into the room and catches a notebook heading for his face.

"Rose?" he starts carefully, but isn't heard over the racket and Rose's angry growls so he repeats himself, louder, and grasps for her arm. "Rose! Stop it!"

The sudden touch makes her look at him as if for the first time, and for a moment she looks as unbelieving as at their encounter in Wrong London. Then she jerks loose.

"Leave me alone!"

The words stab at him and he slowly retracts his hand. There is a momentary standoff and the Doctor doesn't know if it means winning or losing or if it's the right or wrong thing to do, but after a few silent seconds he turns, and leaves.

Rose doesn't want to be left alone. Alone is the last thing of all things she wants to be right now. But she doesn't know what else to scream when the sight of _him_, right there, in the flesh, when so many nights and days have been pierced by the flickering wish for it, when _that_ sight feels less real than those imagined.

And he leaves, and it's quiet again, and deflated she walks over to the bed, sits down and cries.

...

The Doctor is rubbish at forcing himself to do things he doesn't want to do. Rose said to leave her alone and he tries very hard for several minutes, walking up and down the hallway outside her room (leaving her alone is one thing, leaving her proximity is another and just out of the question), restlessly snapping his fingers, but finally his feet stop in front of her door and won't continue moving. He knocks lightly, symbolically waits for an answer and enters.

Rose is sitting on the bed, unabashedly crying into a blanket and the sight wrings his insides. He comes over to gently sink down next to her, scooting as close as possible since there is obviously no other space worth occupying and lightly places his arm around her shoulders.

She doesn't pull away. For a while he's afraid to move, should it alert her to his presence and make her. But then she leans into him and he's washed over with relief, just barely restraining himself from violently throwing both arms around her and opting for discreetly inhaling the scent of her hair instead. Yes, it's been a while since it mingled with the flowery shampoos she likes, but it still holds very much of her and he starts to realise that five days of being nowhere near Rose is five days he's been without small but vital things like the scent of her hair and the sound of her breathing and that five days is enough to miss someone more than he would care to think about.

Rose lets her hands fall into her lap with the blanket and fights to get words out in between sobs.

"I... thought I'd... never... see you again", she croaks and the Doctor feels a bit like crying himself.

"I'm sorry", he whispers.

"I hate you", she continues, mumbling into the lapel of his jacket, and to this he doesn't have an answer.

They stay unmoving until the tears subside. When Rose sits up, scratches at the salt on her cheeks and speaks again she sounds weak and defeated.

"I want to go home."

She doesn't motion to get up. A part of her – a big part, an intense and loudly screaming part wants to stay here, with the Doctor so close she can feel the air around her face swirl from his breaths. The other part – the part that spoke just then, however is convinced that the only place where she will not go completely round the bend right now is home. She wants to get away, she wants to be somewhere familiar, somewhere safe. Frankly, she wants her mum.

"Of course." The Doctor echoes her tone. He doesn't motion to get up, either, until he realises that fulfilling her wish means he'll have to, and then his arm reluctantly slides off, brushing down her back before he stands and leaves for the control room.


	7. Chapter 7

7: The Doctor draws a picture

"What have you done to her!"

Every time Jackie passes, the Doctor recieves a slap.

"My little girl..."

Slap.

"I always knew you were up to no good!"

Slap.

"Bloody 'doctor'!"

Slap.

"Where did I leave the... oh, here it is."

Slap.

He doesn't mind. He deserves it. What he can't help flinching at is the sight of the hollow-eyed girl he brought to the door and who is now sitting quietly in the livingroom while her mother hovers around her. He wonders between abuses if all the fussing is ever going to come to an end and some actual comforting begin. He needs for someone to do what he apparently can't, he needs to turn this over, needs Jackie to fix what he's... Slap.

Finally the woman settles down with the tea and biscuits and leans in to put her arms around Rose, cooing nonsensical words.

Rose gives in to the embrace. It's comforting; the hand stroking her, the familiar voice, the feeling of home. She can breathe.

"Rose, darlin', tell me what happened. Hm?"

Maybe she can speak. She tries.

"I got... sort of... stranded, on... in this place."

"What do you mean, stranded? How? Where?" Jackie withdraws a bit to look Rose in the face, smoothing her hair. "For how long?"

"A while... about... a couple of months", Rose mumbles and winces.

Jackie slowly freezes, inside and out. The hand that pats her daughter's head stills as she turns to stare at the despicable man who keeps sweeping her girl away on dangerous alien journeys and now returns her looking like hardship incarnate – she's tired, she's broken, she's sad and it was obvious from the moment they showed up at the door something terrible's happened. She wasn't prepared to imagine this, though – he always gave the impression to have at least the intention of keeping Rose safe. With each word Jackie's voice pitches up until it's a loosely restrained shriek.

"Do you mean to tell me, that you left my daughter all alone on some horrible planet, for months?"

The hairs in the back of the Doctor's neck stand up.

_'No I didn't.'_

_'It wasn't some horrible planet, it was Earth.'_

_'On the brink of civil war, yeah. She did really well.'_

_'It wasn't me! It was her alter ego's fault!'_

_'I didn't mean to...'_

_'Yes.'_

"Yes."

The mother bear flashes in Jackie's eyes. "Get out." She stands up and starts ushering him towards the front door with randomly directed slaps. "Get out of my house!" He awkwardly moves sideways, trying to not walk into things while keeping his eyes on Her, slipping out of view as he is violently removed from her presence. The moment before the architecture finally cuts them off she suddenly looks up, at him, and he can't read the expression on her face. With a final push from Jackie he is out the door with words like "And don't you dare show your face around here ever again!" ringing in his ears as the door slams shut.

Jackie returns to the sofa, bracing herself for the story she knows she must now drag out of her little girl. She sinks down carefully, replaces her arms around Rose and pulls her into her embrace. After a beat of silence she can't help asking, since she is fundamentally curious of all things: "What do you reckon he'll do now?"

Rose weakly shrugs. "Suppose he'll go back to the Tardis, roam around for a bit... Run off to the far side of the galaxy."

"Well, he's going to have to find someone else's daughter to haul off into god-knows-where 'cause I ain't never letting him near you again."

"It's what he does." The tears welling in Rose's eyes have an unclear origin. "He'll disappear, and he'll find someone else."

The Doctor will, uncharacteristically and most certainly, do nothing of the sort. Leaning back on the door of the Tardis he knows as much. The box is parked out of sight but close to the Tyler residence and this is where it will stay for as long as it takes – he will not risk miscalculating and miss time, return too late, or in the wrong place, having her think he's done it again. He'll sit around, stalk the streets, find some latent potential for patience. He's never had any, that he can think of, but he'll dig some up from the depths of forgotten parts of his soul if he must because waiting for Rose is not optional.

He does a slow lap around the room, fingers sliding along the walls. It's empty here. Silent. More so than usual when not having a companion aboard – as if the current one has been making more noise, taking up more space, leaving a deeper impression. Words jumble in his head, something about a house not being a home without a cat. It would be unfair to compare Rose to a cat – well, depending on the typ of cat, of course, it could be an Earth Housecat of no use to anyone but old ladies, or a Sprinter-cat, they run a very efficient mail delivery system on Erythrocythea; there are Morphing-cats in certain parts of the universe, incredibly graceful and intelligent, Rose would probably be one of those... Where was he? Oh yes, the piercing absence of his travel companion. His friend. His best pal, his- Well, his Reason, really, if one must be painfully honest and now she's missing and despairing and he doesn't know what to do with the helplessness. For a brief moment he considers wallowing in self-pity, but decides against such an honest acknowledgement of his feelings. He takes to occupy himself best he can instead, filling his head with trivial murmur that keeps being broken through by icy thoughts.

Wait and see, wait and see, wait and see.

(He broke her.)

Mend this circuit, mend this circuit, mend this circuit.

(She's never coming back.)

Watch the sharp edge, watch the sharp edge, watch the sharp edge.

(She doesn't like him anymore.)

Fetch a band-aid, fetch a band-aid, fetch a band-aid.

(Her hand holding his hand. Her eyes smiling at his eyes. Her lips softly blowing at the little cut on the side of his palm before her fingers gently curve the adhesive around it. A shiver.)

He stands in the small infirmary, staring at the droplet of blood making its way down his hand, towards his wrist, as if he's forgotten how to treat himself for this injury.

Not as icy, that last one. More...

The Doctor draws a shaky breath and starts rummaging through a drawer, fishes out a piece of material that does for dabbing the cut and tries hard to return to the trivial murmur.

He wanders around his ship for the remainder of the day, and there is a tangible absence of something wherever he goes. Console room – too still. Kitchen – too empty. Library – too quiet. Anywhere Rose has set her foot screams of want. The only place where he cannot possibly miss her, where her presence hasn't made an imprint, where his mind shouldn't be able to place the image of her, is his own bedroom. So that's where he goes, once he's been everywhere else and it's all the same; glimpses of how she walks down the hallway, sits on that chair painting her toenails, calls about tea from the dining room, pushes him off the sofa.

He doesn't come in here much. No need. He hasn't got many things to poke around with and when he does sleep it may as well be in the lounge chair in the den. The room is small and dark, air cooler than outside. He asks for the light to be turned up, and it rises to a warm glow cast over walls, shelf, chair, bed.

Oh. Bugger.

On the neatly made, colourless and simple bed – Rose's blue pillow. He threw it in there when he was too rattled after waking Other Rose up to return it, and hasn't thought of it since. Plump, embellished and colourful it stands out vibrantly to the pale surface of his sheets, like an exotic bird, malplacé in a mundane house, flown in through a window. Silly bird, gets in everywhere... Every nook and cranny. Waits for no invitation. Settles wherever it feels like and makes you all used to it and then it goes away and leaves you hanging for the chirpy singing that you didn't even know you needed and you never asked to form any attachments to birds and it's really being completely unfair.

The Doctor finds himself testing how much blue pillow he can ball up in his hands and realises it's crumpling the stiches of the embroidery in a reckless manner; he smooths it out and holds it thoughtfully to his chest instead. There is no one around and nothing better to do – he might as well lay down and be pathetic, so he does, curled up on his side, pillow in firm embrace. It smells a little bit of her.

He gives the wallowing in a fetal position a few minutes, but the projectile notebook he caught earlier and pocketed is digging into his ribs; he sits and sets the pillow aside to pull out the offending stationery.

It's a simple, spiral-bound, A5 unlined notebook, seventy pages of ninety grams chlorine-free. He flicks through it and it's empty, waiting in vain for shopping lists and diary entrances and doodles and whatever it is that Roses put in notebooks. Drawings maybe. Like the one he found crumpled up on the floor in her room a week and a half ago. It was quite good (he knows for sure because he's studied it in minute detail several times since); confident lines, in proportion, expressive. He was surprised that she hasn't been doing more of the sorts. She should. She should draw more pictures of things. Of herself. And him. And him and herself. Him and her, hand in hand, walking through a grassy meadow with a happy bunny skipping ahead of them because that's the sort of thing that would place that particular giggly squint on her face that's a little bit... who knows, it's sort of... Oh, good, he knew he had a pencil in here somewhere. Like this, it makes her eyebrows shoot up like that, while her mouth just seems ready to break out into laughter at any moment.

The hair comes out looking a little ruffled. That's alright, it's never in much order anyway. It can be attributed to the breeze across the meadow.

For a walk in the sun she would probably wear her dungarees.

Feet are tricky. They can be obscured by the grass. And some daffodils.

Their hands are the important thing. They should be clasped together in a steady grip, keeping anyone from running too far ahead. He's not getting them right, the lines of the fingers seem to have a mind of their own and keep wandering off. He gives in and allows the fingers to intertwine, in a way he's pretty sure they usually don't do. But it's only a drawing. More a representation of wishful thinking than reality.

He thinks a while before choosing to draw himself in his current size and shape, long coat flapping behind. Free hand in pocket, outline of a head. He doesn't bother to put a face below the hair standing on end; leaves it void of the silly grin of giddy contentment he knows it would be sporting in this thought-up situation and finishes up with the bunny instead.

The bunny looks happy. Rose looks happy. The daffodils are swaying in the grass. The image places a very thin blanket of comfort over the cold, sharp thoughts that have been jabbing his mind over the last day, as if the embodiment of the idea of Rose feeling better is enough to raise hopes. He runs a light finger along the lenght of her arm, resting over the hands with the interlaced fingers, and stands to find a good spot to hang it up.


	8. Chapter 8

8: The doctor takes an inventory

It takes four days.

Four excruciatingly long days, filled with wandering around, reading the papers (all of them, including the Sun in some flagillant gesture of self-punishment), cleaning hard-to-reach spots in the Tardis, and... other things. In the heart of night, when darkness falls over the streets and silence becomes more profound: tearing through sheet after sheet of paper, wearing down his no. 2 to a stump, filling the walls around his bed with faces, places, memories, wishes. Always the same face, always the same wish for nice, happy, cheery, exciting things that lit the face up and make it smile at the vacant spot representing his own irrelevant mug.

Four days of killing time and staving off thinking before his phone rings.

He rips it out of his pocket so fast it flies out of his hand and bounces off his fingers a few times before he reels it in, only to miss the answer button and press auto-destruct by mistake. He lets out a panicked squeek and jabs the buttons until the impending phone-doom is neutralized and he can pick up. Straightening, holding the phone to his ear and putting the other hand casually on his hip he manages to recompose but forgets to actually say something. There are a few seconds of silence on each end before a voice breaks through.

"Hello? Doctor?"

Not the voice he was expecting. Eyebrows shoot up, he blurts: "Jackie?"

"No, it's Father Christmas. Listen..."

Another few seconds of silence, during which he holds his breath to keep from saying anything stupid. On the other end Jackie sighs heavily before continuing.

"You need to come."

"Really?" Blurting again. "I mean, yes! Of course. Now?" His feet are already on their way out, he pivots in his track, then staggers forward again. "Should I... bring anything?"

He can practically hear Jackie rolling her eyes. "How about a shovel for yourself?" Then she resigns. "I don't know what to do. She won't go to the doctor..."

"You didn't send her to the right o-"

"Shut up! Like I said, I don't know what to do. I'm not getting through. God knows I try... But she won't talk to me and I think she needs something other than her mum, hard as that might sound, I know. But you got to know when it's time to give up and let someone else handle the problem, don't you, Doctor. My point is, before she wakes up screaming in the middle of the night she calls for someone, and it ain't me."

She's reluctant to say it, but has to.

"It's you."

Something distracts her. "Hold on, there's someone at the door."

When Jackie opens to the frantic knocker it's the Doctor panting on her doorstep. She rolls her eyes again, lifting the phone back to her ear. "Never mind." She clicks it off meaningly and lets him in. "Where you just standing out there all along?"

"No, I... Whe... Jus..."

She doesn't bother to listen. "Rose! He's here."

Rose peeks out of the bedroom, mutters something about that being quick and withdraws. She comes out with a bag slung over her shoulder, glides past them blowing a kiss in her mother's general direction and exits without further ceremony.

Jackie may be blonde but she ain't blind. Watching the man watching the girl, as she breezes past him and out the door without so much as a word, a glance or a kick in the groin, most of the agitation towards the world's worst doctor melts away in favour of a deep pang of sympathy. Because that look on any face, human or alien, can only mean a heart breaking.

She wonders if it's worse when you've got two.

...

Rose hangs back in the console room. She fidgets with the hem of her shirt, shifts her weight between her feet. The Doctor closes the door after himself and wonders what he's supposed to do now. Chit-chat? ...No, probably not.

"So." He claps his hands together. "I finally got that wrench out of the ventilation shaft in the cupboard."

Oh. There he goes anyway.

"Still not sure how it got in there in the first place. I think at some point in time there might have been a rat."

It's as if he can't stop himself.

"I'll have you know rats are very intelligent creatures. But one can't help but wonder what they would do with a wrench. Especially if it's just the one little beastie. I mean, they don't have thumbs..."

Why? For the love of Tellus, why are these words leaving his mouth?

"Thumbs mostly prove to be useful", and at this he takes an interest in his thumbs, "but every once in a while you come across a situation where a sixth parallel phalange would have-"

Rose, in the spirit of mercy or boredom or something, interjects.

"So, er... What have you been doing?"

His eyebrows soar while his lips search for the proper formation of 'w'.

"W... Well... I've... been... reading the paper... And-umm..." He frowns and thinks about it. "Ooh! I took a stroll through Camden-"

Rose shakes her head, scrunching her face up. "Wait, what?" She stares at him for a disbelieving second. "You've been staying here? Here-here?" Her finger pointing to the ground, the street, the Earth, defines 'here'.

The Doctor looks at her, and she nearly buckles under the intensity of his expression. His eyes rarely stop smiling to become the bottomless wells now directed at her, looking into her, searching to swallow her and for a dizzying second she doesn't recognize him. His voice, breathless: "I wouldn't leave you, Rose."

And she knows this, she _knows_ as much as she knows him that he wouldn't, not on purpose, not for his life would he intentionally leave her

(stranded in a strange place to fend for herself, alone in the middle of a raging storm, deserted surrounded by destruction-)

for very long while she was resting at Jackie's and she wants to tell him that's not it, that's not the thing, there is something else but the words won't come. There is something in the way of her even thinking, she feels so tired and so very _stuck_.

The silence isn't bad anymore. It has settled in her and stopped screaming, allowing her to hear the little sounds. First Jackie's voice in the other room, traffic. Then water running through the pipes in the building. Now, the whisper of air through the Doctor's nose when he breathes as if he's upset.

A sudden ball of yarn expands in her chest, just underneath her xiphoid (why certain meaningless pieces of knowledge just stick, she'll never know). It fills something out, warms something up. She knows that ball of yarn. It's what is supposed to be living in her, has been ever since she came aboard this strange place for the first time and what gives that soft feeling sometimes (oftentimes, all the time) and it's been compressed into something hard and gray for so long. She's missed it. Now it softens her enough to allow her to look the Doctor in those eyes of dark, and smile. Not widely, but sincerely. The yarn is rewarded with the light returning to the wells and expands a bit further. A slight feeling of relief that there is still something she recognises inside of her lifts Rose. That, and the assurance that the Doctor is there, has been there, still wants to be there.

Still wants her to be there.

"I should..." she mumbles, motioning limply towards the inside of the ship, tugging on her bag. The Doctor nods encouragingly. But she stays, searching to define the uncomfortable feeling the prospect of installing herself in her room is creating. It takes a few moments to find it, but then it's clear:

"I don't want to be alone."

...

The Doctor sits on Rose's bed and listens to the creation of a small rainforest in her bathroom. When monsoon season subsides she exits in a heavy mist, wrapped in towels and he does a double-take as he catches sight of her naked feet, which he then follows with great interest as she pitty-pats across the floor in search for different clothing items. With all the time that has passed, he still feels that need to count her fingers and toes. Preferably with her standing still, or rather sitting on the bed so he could hold her feet; it would make counting easier.

"Rose, could you just..."

"What?" She looks up at him from where she's bent over an odd number of socks, trying to find two that match. That's a big towel she's wearing. He supposes it's a good thing.

"Just stand still for a second, will you?" He jumps off the bed and approaches her, eyes still on her feet. She straightens and looks down, following his stare.

"What is it?" She begins to wonder if she should worry about something.

"Nothing." The Doctor waves dismissingly as he crouches down in front of her. She tenses when he places his hands lightly on her feet, sliding them down to align his fingers with her toes. It lasts only moments but his touch leaves warm traces on her skin, cooling from the moisture meeting air. He seems to contemplate his fingertips on the tips of her toes, then briefly looks up at her face before reaching for her hands. She drops the socks as he stands up with her hands in his, turning them up and regarding them intently. He carefully runs his thumbs along the hollow of her palms. As much as she doesn't want him to stop, she frowns. "Something wrong?" she asks, and with this he lets go and looks up, taking a step back and grinning widely, all solemnity forgotten.

"Nope. Just checking you've still got all fingers and toes. And you do. Ten fingers, ten toes. Perfect."

For a second the ball of yarn is swelling out of her chest, out of her mouth, but not being good with words it only states: "You're very weird."

Rose disappears into the fading mist, comes back out dressed in old sweatpants, t-shirt and mismatched socks and unceremoniously plops down on the bed. She's asleep on top of the covers before the Doctor has time to ask if she wants him to turn the lights down and he wonders if it would be considered creepy or considerate to stay and stare at her until she wakes up. He'd very much like to wallow in the feeling of calm contentment the sight of her passed-out figure brings, as a contrast to the wallowing in other feelings he's been doing so much of lately. It's not cold and sharp, it's warm. Nice and warm. Inside his chest, wadding him in something soft.

(It almost feels... fluffy.)

He opts for a compromise and stays until he's certain Rose is deep in slumber, soft breaths filling his ears in a soothing rythm.

(Fluffy like a happy bunny.)

Then, turning out the lights and hanging on to the doorframe, he considers the small things. The absence of a look, as opposed to the presence of one. The tone of a voice. And that tiny smile that told him she was still with him. Rose is not a small thing, but she makes all the difference, and sometimes (oftentimes, all the time) she does it with the small things.

He looks at his hands, running his thumbs across the tips of his fingers that still remember resting on Rose's charming toes. When he leaves, after sending her a last last look and a smile unconciously different from the toothy grins she gets when she's awake, he leaves the door open a crack.


	9. Chapter 9

9: Rose needs a doctor

The Doctor sits in the dark on observation deck, gazing out through the panorama window into the endless night. He's watching some rather pretty ionized clouds slow down the beat of a pulsar, when someone pitty-pats up from behind, sort of rolls over the back of the love seat and lands in a heap next to him.

"I thought you were tired."

Rose curls up in the corner, resting her head on the armrest. "I am." She looks through her lashes at the void where streaks of reds and yellows are shifting in a slow, horizontal dance. "Can't sleep, I'm... I haven't been sleeping well. For a while."

The doctor steals a glance at Rose's face. The aurora outside casts a warm glow across her features, illuminating her like candlelight, and it softens the circles under her eyes and the slight crease on her brow. With her body folded into the corner, way over on the other side of the seating, it's still impossible to be further apart than the width of a hand. She's not bothering to keep that last distance either, comfortably spreading out as far as space permits and that simple fact is making his mind cautiosly relax. Every sign of Rose-Rose feeling like normal, acting like she normally would, brings the shards of his world closer together and adds to the faith that all will, eventually, be alright.

So he sits back and enjoys the silent company. With Rose close and casual a nice array of calm feelings are flowing through him in rythm with the waves outside; hope, contenment, affection.

(Deep inside, pushed back and thoroughly ignored: flutter, heat, and a sense that close should mean something else entirely; that close can never be close enough.)

Her feet press against the side of his thigh and his hand goes to wrap itself around one of them, arguing to his mind that hands and feet are essentially the same and that it and its right-sided brother hold her counterparts without hesitation all the time anyway. His mind complies for a while, but when the fingers sneakily begin tracing slow lines across the back of the foot, it overrides command of all limbs and promptly places the hand back in his own lap. Slightly flustered that his treacherous hands would attempt to cross the thin line he has set for himself, to avoid falling headlessly through into the rose garden and stomp around to leave it trampled and torn, he carefully tries to shift and lean a little further away from the sleepy heap. He finds it quite impossible. There is no room. Cautiously relaxed turns cautiously nervous. No room. No space. Limbs and bodyheat everywhere. Why did he have to go and put a love seat there in the first place? He could have chosen a nifty captain's chair, or a beanie bag or absolutely nothing at all and have people stand up while looking out at the universe passing by – the universe does, after all, deserve a standing salute – but no. A _love seat._

"It's like looking into a fire", Rose mumbles, and the soft sound of her voice breaks the Doctor out of his silent rant. "Sort of..." She holds her hand up in front of her face in a sleepy gesture towards the slow flickers of light. "...Horizontal... fire..."

The Doctor turns to look at her and smiles crookedly, worries forgotten. Rose tucks her hand in under her chin and sighs.

"Cake or Death..." he starts to suggest, but mutes when Rose's breath is replaced by a quiet snore. He watches her, allowing the little rasps of her throat to tickle his ears for a few minutes, and steals a listen to her heartbeat, before very carefully rising to go fetch her a blanket.

...

Wasps. Angry, infuriated. The noise imposing on her ears, retreating, returning. No escape.

Heat. Rising, falling, licking too close.

Smoke. Dark, obscured shapes. Searching, squinting, straining her eyes – out of sight.

Metal. Cold, hot, in her hands. The scent, in her nose. The taste, in her mouth. The mass, weighing down. The fear sharp in her back, rising like ice along her spine. When it reaches her neck, she will have lost.

Dark, ugly panic. Nauseating, all-encompassing. No escape.

Burn. Sudden, red across her cheek. Muffled sound. Rough feeling, like a lifeline. She grasps, it slips. Another, red across her cheek – it stays. Muffled sound breaking through like from water – her name. She grasps, finds, holds on. More sound breaking through, clearing, coming closer: crying.

She's crying.

...

The crimson glow on Rose's left cheek is giving the Doctor tremendously bad conscience as he carries her away from the fire-like flickering on observation deck and to the nearest safe haven: his room. Touching her, shaking her or calling her name did nothing to wake her from her nightmare; it was only after he, in toothgrinding hesitation, slapped her in the face that it loosened its grip and released her into this, still not completely conscious, state of falling apart. And he would have stayed with her in that room, quietly wincing at her fingernails digging into his hand, and let her cry it all out into his shirt – but then she started sputtering about "putting it out", sounding quite authoritative amidst sobs, and he thought it best to remove her from the suggestive ambiance.

He honestly didn't mean to end up in here, the least colourful place of the Tardis and not really one he considers warm and comforting. But it was close, and quiet, and the door was open.

(Why did he leave it open?)

Trying to lower his armful to the surface of the bed he feels that Rose's hands are firmly clenched around his collar and tie, pulling them with her and slightly choking him. He awkwardly shifts to turn and sit down with her still in his arms, settling her on his lap. She keeps shaking with sobs, still unreservedly crying and he pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his cheek to the top of her head. Her voice muffles against his shirt, long since soaked. He rocks her, hushes her, strokes her hair and pleads with her to calm down and the more she doesn't the more he worries. Nothing seems to console her and hard as she tries, there is not a coherent word leaving her lips to explain what is hurting so badly.

"Rose, darling? There's no fire", he tries. "No one's burning anything."

It doesn't help.

"It's alright, sweethearts, you're safe."

No reaction. Distraction?

"Look Rose, I've gone bald!"

If anything it gets worse.

Eyes clenched shut, tears streaming, and her mind in so much distress she couldn't be further away even as she clings to him – this wall is new and terrifying and The Doctor fights to keep the frustration of helplessness at bay. Finally he makes the decision to try another level of connection.

After some shuffling he manages to lay Rose down on the mattress, where she tries to curl up on her side, forcing him to lay down with her as he's still firmly held in place by her grip on his tie. He brings his hand to her face, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before placing his fingers in the right spots. He presses a quick kiss on her forehead, silently asking forgiveness for this intrusion, and enters her mind.

And there is Ralph; cut off in the middle of a sentence, standing before her for a good whole second with a gaping, dripping hole in his temple before tumbling into a heap on the ground. There is the horrifying realisation brought by the warm, salty taste on her lips that her face is splattered with him, and the shame of vomiting much too close to his body.

And there is her wristwatch; caught on something inside the hole she just tucked plastic explosive into while the sound of feet draw near and her heart isn't strong enough for this, it's going to burst if her own lungs don't suffocate her first. There is the pain of panic nearly dislocating her thumb and the tumble when she springs free, and breathless running.

And there is the dirty cellar where Hannah will bleed the last good pillow through while Rose tries to stitch her wounds back together, fingers slipping and uncanny calm in her voice. There is the burning sensation of knowing that it will fail, and the guilt-ridden thankfulness that this is not her best friend but another Rose's.

The Doctor's stomach churns. Every beautiful, amazing, wondrous place he has ever had a mind to show her – and this is where she is. This is where she _was_, and still is. But this is no place for his Rose. This is no place for anyone actually, which makes it the very last of all places for Her.

He can't bear it. He brought her home once; he will have to do it again.

It has never been something one does lightly or without much consideration. To the Doctor in this case it also holds some fear: his mind is vast and there is darkness there that he doesn't wish for Rose to catch any glimpses of. But there is nothing to do but try, and he concentrates hard to make a space for her, in him.

Rose feels a nudge and is suddenly in the eye of the storm. All around; raging memories and feelings, blasting past in a gray, hazy whirlwind. In front of her, or within or somehow just _there_; brown eyes. Completely calm, smiling, and so longed for she almost hiccups. Her own mind fills in the blanks, and there's the Doctor taking form before her. As he gradually grows more solid, more present, the gray, nauseating haze grows less so. The dusty, broken surroundings fade and Rose feels something shifting without moving, as if the world around her is carefully being taken down and replaced with something else. Another ground beneath her feet, another light in the corner of her eye while the familiar, welcome, _so very safe_ face keeps her locked in place, unblinking. She feels the grief slowly wash out of her. When the Doctor, or his image, winks, Rose finally lands in a state of perfect stillness. Familiar, yet strange: this is a different place. There are other things here...

There is the Doctor leaning over her shoulder as they stare into a pot of water, waiting for it to boil. "The bubbles should be the size of codfish eyes", he says. "No more, no less. Well, more or less."

"We were never sure if the water was alright", she answers thoughtfully. "We always boiled it, but we hardly ever made tea." There is the memory of the concern, the thirst and the missing. But as facts, not feelings. She sinks into the sensation of his arm snaking around her waist.

There is the rail along Hungerford Bridge, cold through her shirt as she leans out to look at the view. There is the life and noise of people and traffic.

"I helped tear this thing down." She runs a finger along the metal. "Did you know?" There is the snapshot of every heartstopping moment of that night. But not relived, only remembered. And there is the tiny surprise of feeling the Doctor's breath so close to her ear when he answers: "I know." Partly sympathetic, partly proud.

There is apple grass. Between her fingers, tickling her face as she lies on her stomach on his coat, lazily resting her chin on her arm and squinting at the sun. There is the reassuring notion that, if she should turn her head, she will see him right next to her.

"I looked for you", she says. "Everywhere I could think of." And the memory of this does hurt, a bit. She turns her head, and there is the Doctor propped up on his elbow, as she knew. And there is the strange flutter when he reaches out and slides a strand of her hair between his fingers and says: "What's in your heart is never far away, eh Rose?"

Perhaps it takes seconds, perhaps she spends hours moving from detail to detail, relaying her story in bits and pieces. But she does it from the outside looking in, knowing and remembering but not despairing, and in every instance the Doctor installs himself like a feeling of stability: it changes everything. The loneliness and the ache, the holes that made her time in the wrong place unbearable are filled and she finds that she can stand it all.

When Rose has moved through an infinite number of places, events, short exchanges of words, she feels clear-minded and relaxed. She begins to take notice of the situation – the present one. She's clearly asleep, or something like it, but conscious at the same time. She feels the cushioned surface underneath her body and knows she's lying down somewhere. She feels a light pressure in a few spots on her face and head, as if someone's fingertips are resting there. She feels herself, yet feels out of herself and suddenly she knows what's going on; it makes her want to use words like _flabbergasted_ and _awestruck_, because the notion of being inside someone else's mind – _His_ mind, the Doctor's mind, protected and private and amazing – humbles her completely. And, after the initial surprise, entertains her to no end. She tries to take a look around, however one might do this mentally, and finds herself rejoicing at landscapes she recognises from one place or another, rooms full of interesting things, wonderful people. And a bunny rabbit.

In the mean time, the Doctor is doing what he can to stop himself from releasing a storm of emotion into the protective space he's keeping Rose in. It's proving more difficult than expected. It's not the darkness that threatens to break through the barrier – it's the light. And the warmth. The too-bright light, the too-hot warmth, the too-strong wish to gather her up and keep her within himself forever and let all else wither and fade around them because he didn't know, with all of his excellent brain powers he didn't know what it was going to feel like, to have _Her... there._ Close, closer, closest. Inside. Inside, where he's been alone since the day of his creation and her blessed heart lights everything and cor, he knew she was brilliant but just how much – no.

Yes.

Brilliant, brillant, brillant Rose, who's traipsing around with him in a field of daffodils that nip at their heels, talking about gratitude and healing without a single word being spoken. Her hand so perfect in his, her curiosity so dangerous. He trips on something, pulling her into a stumble that ends against him, his chest, his hearts. The strangest of sweet glimmers in her eyes, and...

Oh. In the rose garden now. Don't panic. Stand perfectly still. Don't – trample – anything.

Rose feels a rush of something grand as the field of playful flowers is replaced by the front garden of a little house in Oxney. Suddenly there is a different light, softer and brighter at the same time and scorching hot without burning. The thick greens and reds of lavish rosebushes are satin soft to her eyes, the air caresses to her skin. This place is different; smaller, condensed, set apart. There is such tenderness here that she feels overwhelmed.

The Doctor, however, looks as if they just stumbled into something he doesn't quite recognise and that she isn't meant to see. For some reason all the funny little things she nearly hasn't noticed him doing while listening to her stories spring to mind: they seem connected to this place. Whispering so close to her ear, gazing so steadily into her eyes. Holding her differently, tracing circles ever so lightly on the back of her hand like a lo-

"I need to let you back", he says, or thinks, or something like that. Rose's heart sinks in time with the steady shift back to her own self and she feels him letting go, carefully but decisively. Coming back feels like crawling into her own, cold, unused but familiar bed after sleeping in someone else's arms.

As the final connection is broken Rose opens her eyes with a gasp as if waking up from a strenuous dream, and draws shaky breaths while her hands grasp for the Doctor's head, burying themselves in his hair for loss of the warm haven that was his mind. Pressing her forehead to his she steadies herself to meet the world again. After a few moments she swallows and sighs deeply, blinks with sore eyes and draws back. Carefully letting go of the tufts of hair she places her hand lightly, reassuringly on the Doctor's cheek, and smiles.

The Doctor glances around, and looks worried.


	10. Chapter 10

10: The Doctor makes a confession

The Doctor feels bereft. Acutely, coldly bereft. Losing Rose's presence leaves a cavity in him, but he had to separate them before she realised she was standing in the middle of his monumental surrender. (And before the intensity of it broke her.) Now, while the hole in his mind is filling up with a longing that will never go away, he tries to come to terms with the fact that it's time to fess up to himself. Thin lines crossed – probably ages ago, barriers broken, doors and windows all ajar: Ok. Alright. Alright, so maybe he's... No, not maybe. He's... Yeah. All that... unleashed. Fine. No going back now. Admit and move on. Nothing has to change-

"What?"

The Doctor is pulled from his thoughts by Rose's voice, just above a whisper from across an ocean of space. She lies facing him at least a foot away (it's like a _billion_ nanometers), exhausted from emotional turmoil and sleep deprivation. She's looking at him, eyes curious behind heavy lids.

"What?"

"You just said 'fess up'."

"No..." The Doctor glances sideways.

"I'm pretty sure you did..." She trails off, and with a flutter her eyelids fall shut once again. Over no nightmares this time, but a dreamless sleep, a deep and harmonic rest. She needs it, he knows, and he needs it too, he thinks. Thoughtfully he takes the hand fallen between them, holds it, studies it. Moments ago it rested on his cheek in what felt like a gesture of forgiveness. He brings it with him as he turns on his back, pulling Rose's arm out to lay half-way across his chest, and leaves it on his sternum. He tucks his own hand under his head. Where was he? Oh yes. In the state of surrender. So... yeah. Should have seen it coming. Did see. Did, and tried very hard to not, but ended up, anyway. So there it is. Completely inappropriate, inconvenient and ultimately heart-shattering. Irresistible and unavoidable.

Love.

He mouths the word. Turns it, tastes it. Love.

Love.

Rose.

Love. Rose.

Love Rose.

He loves Rose.

Yeah.

Which in itself is nothing new, who wouldn't, she's brilliant. The question: In what way.  
The answer: All of them.

What does he do with that?

The easiest thing would be to do nothing. To hide it deep inside, carry on like normal and pretend there are no questions yearning to be answered in the back of his mind, no desires other than holding her hand. Rather that, than giving her the choice and risking her making the wrong one.

Right?

She loves him. Of course she does, who wouldn't, he's brilliant. The question is, again, in what way.

There are little things. The warmth in her eyes, the linger of a touch. The confidence that she is devoted to him, albeit in a way that may as well be completely friendly. In her mind there was too much devastation at the time to see anything else, although he did sense just how much she had missed him and it kept threatening to break his hearts.

She _will_ break his hearts. Sooner or later, in one way or another; it's inevitable. Maybe that's why he made that vow to never, never ever... So that's settled, he already knew that. What doesn't have to be risked – what shouldn't, what really mustn't – is hers being broken as well. On the off chance that she would want to take a shot at it (he doesn't care to calculate the odds on that), one could never tell how it would turn out. He could prove to be relationally challenged, treat her wrong, hurt her. He could regenerate into something she doesn't like. He could get stuck on the wrong side of some time anomaly, abandoning her by accident (again). He sees all possibilities, and there's

(one that's... too good for words)

no end to the ones of heartbreak.

So, no. He won't say a word. Swear on the Tardis, cross his hearts, hope to die.

"Rose...!"

Treacherous gob.

At the sound of his hushed voice Rose stirs. The weight of her arm shifts across him, sneaking around him, grounding him. It doesn't feel restricting – it feels safe. Her head nuzzles in on his shoulder, she sighs. The Doctor plans to stay still for the rest of his life.

"Rose!"

Damn it.

"Mmh."

The inticing, sleepy murmur makes his eyelids flutter. But the part of him that won't shut up is quite urgent, making him get a hold of himself and ask for the light to be turned up further as he turns over and shakes Rose's shoulder.

"Rose! Wake up!"

And she does. Slowly blinking, a sensuous haze in her eyes. He finds himself looking down at her face, softly lit and glowing, and for the first time he lets it take his breath away.

Rose is made of yarn. Warm, soft, vibrant purple cashmere and she knows what she'd fess up to if the Doctor pressed her for it. And as his voice and touch pull her back from sleep she wonders if she started dreaming of something else entirely, because the face hovering above her when she opens her eyes wears an expression she's never seen on it, outside of her own dreams; dazed, and smouldering. For a sleepy, confused second she thinks he's going to kiss her. Then her throat tickles, she coughs and wakes up completely. The Doctor lets go of her shoulder, pulling back.

"Hello!" He shoots her a signature grin, with a hint of uncharacteristic uncertainty playing in his eyes.

"Hi..." She rubs her eye. "How long was I out? Ugh, I need to wash my face." Her voice is rough, worn, and she frowns at the strain of speaking and at the light.

"Oh, two or three minutes. Listen. I need to tell you something."

She pushes herself up on her elbows. "What?"

The Doctor's mouth falls open for a few seconds while he seems to be searching for words, or for control over his synapses in general. His eyes wide open, deer caught in the headlights look makes her want to laugh and reach out and comfort him, yarn turning cotton candy turning melting sugar at the sight of his face. She waits; he doesn't seem to want to continue. Finally he blurts: "I just broke a promise."

But at that point something else is catching her attention. She sits up, rubbing her face, and looks around. She doesn't recognise this room.

"Where are we? I've never been in here..." She yawns. "Aweh inne Dardis?" She looks at the chair, the shelf, the walls. The bed they're sitting on is narrower than hers, made with white linens neatly tucked under the mattress. It looks unused, apart from the rumpling caused by them sitting on it now. She spots something blue behind the Doctor.

"Oi!" She reaches out and takes her pillow, turning it over and smoothing it, smiling. "Thought I lost this..."  
"We're in my room, yes. I, um, broke two, or, I made two, and just broke the one and now I'm about to break the other, I think..."

"Your room?" Rose is struck with the fact that she is, again, privy to something personal, that the Doctor seems to be letting her into all of his private areas (she won't finish that thought, no), and while she doesn't want to seem brash it does make her, again, infinitely curious. Her eyes grow as she looks around again, trying to connect the room with the inhabitant. It won't be done, there is nothing strange, interesting, quirky, funny, amazing in here. No colour, save for her own pillow, and she wonders briefly how it got there. She looks back to the Doctor and catches a quick glance to something behind her before he continues.

"Yes. You know what, never mind, you must be hungry, let's make breakfast."

Rose follows that glance. She turns, stands up on her knees, and gazes over a wall covered with:

Drawings.

Hand-made, detailed, well executed drawings. What looks like a whole notebook's worth of sheets. All drawn with pencil, all featuring people doing all sorts of things. Different settings, different situations, but as she sweeps over them she sees a theme; the people all seem to be the same. Paired up, two in each drawing, a male figure with no face and a woman that, on closer inspection, looks rather like herself. Smiling, talking, playing cards, taming a dragon – it is, there's no mistake, it's her. Her clothes, her hair, her face. And the other one, well – even with empty space above the coat's collar, and sometimes the leather jacket's, there's no doubt about who that's supposed to be.

Drawings of her and the Doctor. How strange, that she's never seen them before. How... nice.

"What are all these?" she asks without turning, distracted by the delicacy with which one of the Doctors is sliding his fingers into the hair of one of the Roses while helping her try on a hat.

"I... got bored?" he tries.

"That too..." Her eyes rest briefly on a pair of dancing clowns, a bit different from the rest but perhaps resembling them underneath the flamboyant make-up. She turns from picture to picture, tracing the entwined hands that occur on more than a few. There is such joy, such companionship and affection and tenderness permeating them all, almost like an invocation. Much like her own daydreams, the meditations she tried soothing herself with during her time on Wrong Earth, wishing for dear life that she was back doing anything or nothing with Him.

"But no... you got lonely", she states, slight surprise in her low voice. For some reason she never considered that he might miss her as much. That he might... need her, as much. And definitely not that he might-

"You made all these?" she interrupts herself. "When?"

"Well, when you went home to Jackie's, you were gone for days and days and I just, I... missed... you." The airy voice badly hides the sincerity of the words.

Rose stays staring at the wall, because she's afraid of what will be on display on her face should she turn and face the Doctor. Hope, nerves, utter vulnerability. She fixes her eyes on a bunny rabbit, skipping ahead of them through a field of daffodils. It looks just like that place in the Doctor's mind, just before it shifted into something else, before she glimpsed something he wouldn't let her fully see. That garden, what it represented, these pictures, what's in them, those looks, those words, those touches that didn't really happen because they were fleeting thoughts in his, her, their mind – they _mean_ something.

Rose's mind wanders between the scenes in front of her and all the thoughts within that they resonate with. When she had first begun realising, on dark, lonely, sleepless nights in makeshift hide-outs that the amusing crush she'd been harbouring towards the Doctor was something much larger than that, she had been afraid. There was no room for something like that, not in her mind, and not between them, should she ever find him again. He was larger than life and she was just a girl, a girl who would inevitably fail him in the end just by being human and he would see no reason to bring another dimension to their friendship, should he even be able to feel that way about her.

That was at first.

Then, she had started to get used to the idea. Not the idea of the Doctor and her, as such, but of the feelings being there. In her. She allowed herself to find solace in little fantasies, memories with added meaning, daydreams with new details. She could keep that shining sphere of affection and attraction to herself, in herself, drawing strength and joy from it without ever sharing it with anyone else. So she did, for a while.

Eventually the softness in her had been compressed and forgotten, hope chafing away as time went by with no sight of him, grief striking her time and again in the fight for freedom in a world that wasn't hers, with friends she didn't know.

When he did come to get her it was unbelievable. She was filled with resentment, but more towards the world than the Doctor and it didn't take many nights waking up screaming to realise she wanted nothing but to be back with him, and the Tardis, and their life. And then it was quick. She had expected him to be off somewhere, tangled in one adventure or another and not coming for her for days, maybe weeks. But he had been _there_. The Doctor, the ever elusive wanderer, the pathologically restless, the can't-stay-in-one-spot-for-ten-seconds had been right there, just waiting. Waiting for her.

Tonight he saved her from something. Saved her from the enemy within, saved her from herself. And he did it by gathering her up and taking her into himself, into his beautiful mind and she finds it hard to imagine a more intimate action or a larger self-sacrifice.

Now this. These drawings, these incantations, these _wishes_. He's been sitting in his room – this empty, uninteresting room that doesn't fit him at all – drawing pictures of what he wishes for. And what he wishes for, is her. Perhaps only as the friend she is, but perhaps...

Maybe it wouldn't harm to probe the terrain.

Dare she?

"Doctor... If I didn't know any better", she says as she turns around, "I'd say you like me."

She dare.

"Of course I do, silly rabbit. You're Rose! Rose-Rose. Rose-Rose-Rose", the Doctor professes with an unnoticable waver. He's sitting cross-legged, one hand on his lap, the other squeezing his shoe. Rose chuckles. Not quite what she meant, but it's a start. "Do you have any idea..." she begins, but her courage momentarily falters and she looks away, back to the drawing with the hat.

"Oh, Rose, so many, _many_ ideas. Don't you know by now I'm a genius?"

That earns the Doctor an amused scowl and Rose turning back to him, sitting back on her heels. "Why's your face missing? In all of them, your face, it's... not there."

The Doctor scratches his ear. "Well, it didn't really seem relevant, you know, and there wouldn't have been much diversity in the expressions and besides I didn't know which one you'd prefer", he cuts himself off, matter-of-factly. Rose makes a puppy face. "I like this one", she assures, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his cheek before she has time to think twice. "And the last one, too, but this is... good." She expects herself to take her hand back, but it won't be moved. It lingers on its own accord, registering the soft hairs of his sideburn and warmth of his skin. She feels her own cheeks heat up, wondering how much of a fool she's making herself and why, why, why she thought risking to shake their settled world would be a good idea. But his face feels so appealing beneath her fingertips, his eyes look so dark and deep and serious and when he reaches up, not to take her hand away but to hold it to his face, her breath catches. When it returns it has her courage on tow. She picks up where she left off.

"Do you have any idea, how much I missed you?"

His eyes are unwavering, hand steady over hers. She can feel his jaw move as he answers, tiny stubbles against the skin of her palm and it sends electricity from her hand through her arm all the way into her core.

"I do. I saw- Well, felt it."

Oh. That's right. He must have been in her mind, too. The thought makes her a confused blend of hopeful and regretful – he might already know everything in there. When she continues she tries to sound more cheeky than she feels, and fails.

"What else did you see?"

The Doctor places his hand back on his lap, and Rose fights the burn of disappointment before she realises he's still holding hers. At least that's something familiar, to make the soft, low tone of his voice a little less alien.

"Pain, and bravery." He looks at their hands, then back at her. "You were a real soldier."

Rose offers a small, bitter smile. "Yeah, well... There's something missing in the 'soul' of a 'soldier'."

The Doctor's expression brightens. "What's that then?"

"...'U'..."

Rose can't believe she just said that. But the Doctor beams away, she sees, when she ventures to look back at him.

"Rose!" he exclaims happily. "That's the cheesiest thing you've ever said!"

A tickly wave rolls through her, washes out the tension and throws her into a fitful of laughter together with him.

"I know!" she wails, "But it's true!" She tries to get words out amid bursts of laughter. "I really felt like something was missing, you know, from here-" She puts her hand to her heart, forgetting that it's attached to his, and the laughter subsides into a slightly embarrassed smile at the contact between his knuckles and her chest. She lets their hands sink to the bed where she can fidget with something on his pantsleg. "I hated it there. But I did some good, I think."

"I'm proud of you, Rose", he says, honest admiration lining his smile. She looks up and meets it.

"That's all I ever wanted."

Because it is, really. She can live with feelings unspoken, keeping that part of her heart to herself like before and love him quietly. Anything for that acknowledgement, and their friendship and this life to go on. She remembers how strongly she wished for his approval that time he was upset with her, for messing up in Wrong London, and having it now is a happy relief.

"Is it?" The Doctor's smile stays on, but something serious lurks behind it. "All you ever wanted?"

The question has Rose a bit nervous as she wonders just how rhetorical it is. She's always enjoyed a bit of flirtatious banter but this is not one of those situations; there is uncertainty here, possible risk and she's not sure of how to tread or even what she wants to do.

"What more could a girl ask for?" she tries, casually.

"Girl like you? Should ask for the whole shebang", he answers, casually.

"What's 'the whole shebang'?"

"Oh, I don't know... What's in the world, eh? The suns and the moons and the... tides... this..." he says, gesturing unspecifically to their surroundings. "...life long health insurance..." he finishes with a light cough. Rose raises her eyebrows and nods in feigned comprehension.

The Doctor is dying a little bit. The part of him that wouldn't shut up has gone off and hidden, leaving him alone with indecisiveness, doubt and something that feels uncomfortably like fear, and now he's on this painfully tip-toeing walk around something he doesn't know how to express. He, who knows everything. It's annoying, really. Unnerving. Exasperating. He wants to lay down again.

He tips over on his back, hitting the mattress with a poof that conceals the huff from his nose. Rose, bless her, moves to his side and lets him stretch his legs out over the wrong end of the bed. She lies on her hip, leaning on her arm, a bit like a mermaid. He met mermaids once, they were... anyway, she's looking down at him, looking like she wants to say something. When she finally does, it's in the softest of questioning voices, as if she daren't disturb the silence.

"Doctor?"

"Hm?"

"What promise?"

Oh. Ok. Holy Jebus, here we go then.

"Well..." He drags it out, swallows. "I, long time ago, by your standards, my standards are of a completely different realm, being, you know... old, and such, made a very serious promise to never, never, never never never-umm actuallyfallforacompanion and then I sort of went ahead and did anyway which by definition made me break said promise and then I made another one, to not say anything about it and that was quite resent and now I broke that too." He clasps his gesturing hands still on his chest but keeps looking at all kinds of interesting spots in the ceiling. Rose plops down a notch, from hand to elbow, and frowns at him.

"Rewind, repeat. Slow-er."

There was a rock in that rapid stream of words that solved everything, she knows. But before butterflies start coming out of her ears she needs to find it, hold on to it, feel its solidity in her hand. She needs him to be frank.

The Doctor finally turns to look at her, pleadingly. "Rose, if I ask you something, will you say yes?"

How to speak without breath she doesn't know, but she does it anyway. "Anything. Everything."

There is a moment's hesitation.

"I want to get a bunny rabbit."

She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry; being sick of the latter she opts for the former. It feels nice, like before it washes some of the tension out and makes her braver. She reconnects with the urge to comfort him, her old friend, her crazy incomprehensible Doctor. And to take action.

"You're not making any sense", she complains affectionately, placing her head on his shoulder and her hand on his stomach where she can feel a quick flinch beneath her touch.

"I'm making perfect sense, it's you that-" The Doctor turns his head to find Rose's face suddenly much closer than expected. So close, in fact, that he's brushing against her forehead with the corner of his mouth, his lips. He expects himself to move away, but doesn't. His face lingers of its own accord, registering the feeling of salty skin radiating heat, and the scent of newly washed hair.

"Do you have any idea", she murmurs against his neck, warm breath tickling, "how much I missed you?"

"We covered that", he says, rapidly blinking.

"Do you have any idea", she continues, and he swears those are eyelashes fluttering against his jugular like wonderful threats, "how much I care about you?"

"I have a general idea", he confesses, taking the hand resting on his stomach, to keep it there.

"Doctor", she demands, playfully stern, propping herself up on her elbow again, "do you – like – me?"

The Doctor rubs across her knuckles with his thumb before looking up at her, calm now, and earnest.

"No."

He continues before that imminent frown has time to form.

"No, I love you, Rose. Very much."

Rose chokes on air for a second, then croaks:

"In what way?"

It's terrifying. Incredibly liberating though, he must say. And he's sure she'll understand just what he means when he says:

"Ooh... All of them."

Rose reels, swirls with the notion. She plops down onto the Doctor's shoulder again, yarn being much too floppy to support anything of weight.

"I love you like a crazy person", she squeeks into his neck. He's fairly sure of just what she means, and it makes him marvel, and laugh. She what now? Of course she does, why wouldn't she, but... really? Something in him implodes and explodes in cascades of joy.

"You are a crazy person."

"You should talk."

They lie still for a moment, breathing, smiling in different directions. Rose has decided the crook of his neck is the place to be, warm and inticing and smelling of Doctor. She allows herself tiny exploring movements, brushing her nose against the sensitive skin that has been off limits for too long. Eventually placing a small kiss under his ear she thrills at the light gasp that follows. She can no longer contain herself, she simply has to do it:

"You li-ike me... You want to hu-ug me, and ki-iss me..." she sing-songs into his ear, walking her fingers up along his ribs.

"Rose", he warns slowly.

"You think I'm go-o-" she mocks on, the rest of the words drenched in giggles as she is suddenly thrown over, pounced on by a manic alien. While they fight for control over her hands he tries to lecture her.

"Now, Rose, you know I hated that movie. The storyline was completely unbelievable, and this Sandra Bullock-person-"

"You loved it!"

"Yeah, I did", he happily admits. "It was brilliant. Especially with you snorting like a little piggy next to me every time you laughed."

"I did not." Rose grins.

"Did too." The Doctor grins back. "I remember", he enunciates to point out his superiority in things like remembering.

"Yeah? Remember this? BA-BA-BA-BABA-"

"Rose, don't you dare!" He has to give up one of her hands to cover her mouth from shouting more of the ghastly theme music from that silly space movie.

It's not the first time he's had to stop her from making a ruckus, but it is the first time he's been so aware of the softness of her lips moving against the palm of his hand as she smiles and tries to speak. It fascinates him. She fascinates him.

He frees her mouth, moving to softly trace the line of her jaw, fingertips across her cheek, behind her ear. Moments ago, agony, now – this? He can do this? He's suddenly allowed, he supposes, to sit on top of her, stare at her in unmasked admiration and _touch_ her like this, because for some magical reason she wants him to. For some magical reason she wants him, too. He feels the way she leans into his touch, sees the way she blinks slowly and leaves her eyes half-open. He hears the way her heart beats differently, faster, lighter, like his (is he officially allowed to listen to that now? He should ask). And he sees something glint in her eyes, a thought. The captive hand that has surrendered and interlaced with his, carefully pulls loose and starts travelling up his side, nails tracing through the fabric of his shirt. The gesture is light, questioning, and he slides his fingers into her hair at the temple to confirm that yes, she's allowed, do continue, for all the world please.

"Thank you for trying to fix me", she says, in thankful acknowledgement of what he did before. Her hand slides further around his back, or maybe his back is bending down closer to her hand.

"What's broken can always be fixed." Confident, in most things, mezmerised by others; he lightly rubs his thumb along her eyebrow. Maybe his arms are getting tired, or maybe there is something about her face pulling him downwards, but she is decidedly becoming less far away than before.

"What's fixed will always be broken", she retorts with a curl of her lip, knowing that a dull, distant ache will accompany her for a long time ahead. There will still be nightmares waking her up every once in a while. The notion is reflected in the eyes meeting hers, serious and inching closer.

"I'll spend the rest of my life fixing you", he states, nudging the tip of his nose to hers, the strange intimacy of the action sending jolts of tingling heat through her abdomen.

"You mean the rest of my life." Her words have taste, cheeky and sweet like her breath.

His lips brush over hers with the movement of final words:

"Do shut up."

When the Doctor finally does close his lips over Rose's the air leaves her. None of her bashful daydreams, secret ponderings or unwarranted nighttime wishes come close to the feeling of slow pecks, soft as a breeze, spread along her lipline, the corner of her mouth, out across her cheek. She blissfully turns her face to allow him access to the angle of her jaw, her cheekbone, her temple. It's not a kiss; it's a declaration of adoration. He ghosts over her ear, shallow breath tickling her inside and out. When he returns to her mouth she slides her fingers into his hair and catches his lips between hers, longing to taste him. The tip of her tongue darts out, teasingly, leaving a little wet spot quickly found and expanded by his own. Lips part, tongues tentatively meet. The mindful encounter soon turns into a slow, loving exploration. Rose positively melts in the sensation of hot, slick satin leisurely roaming her mouth.

The Doctor suddenly comes to a halt. He pulls back to look her in the eyes.

"I might keep you in a mausoleum", he informs her. Then he tries to return to kissing her before she has a chance to change her mind about it, resulting in the air violently exhaled by her laugh popping his ears. It's alright, doesn't even hurt, because the taste of Rose's mouth nulls every unpleasant feeling there could ever be. But it does make it a little hard to keep from laughing himself. He chuckles in the back of his throat, pushes his hands in underneath her and holds her to him while he straightens up, plopping down between her legs as he sits them both up. There's a look of dazed contentment on his face, he can feel it, and the novelty of letting what he feels shine through is wonderful. There is something topping it, though: seeing it reflected on the sweet face in front of him. He basks in the light in her eyes, all shining at him – _him._

Her eyes darts to his crumpled tie and back then, and she speaks, as if needing to confirm what's going on.

"I'm, er... helplessly in love with you, yeah?"

The surprised laugh that escapes him even though he already knows is practically goofy.

"Yeah, me too." Strange, all-new and yet embarrassingly far-gone truth.

Rose worries her bottom lip. There's something else she needs to know, something to work out. She picks at a button on his shirt.

"What do we do then, how does this work? ...What am I?" She looks up, piercing his eyes with warmth and defiance and compassion and and he wants to blurt "Everything!" but knows that's not what she means. He tries to find the words for something he hasn't formed in his own mind yet -

"I want you to be my... my..."

(What? His partner, his 'girlfriend'? Some sort of... 'wife'?)

"...mine", he conludes. "You're mine."

- and fails. That's old, he always wanted her to be his. Just his. Rose gives him a look he can't immediately decipher, and it makes him a little nervous. He shifts to sit on his knees.

"Do you... Do you want me to be yours?"

The Doctor looks at her with her with more vulnerability behind the cocky gleam than she's ever seen and Rose doesn't know if she wants to bash him for the possessive statement or cradle him. Oh, 'his', is she? Well... yeah. No argument there, except for the sake of principle. Him, hers? The idea is too new, she almost can't fathom it. Almost. The whole situation would be a dream, except there's an unromantic cramp building up in her leg and she can feel the tingle of a stubble burn around her lips. It's real. But that question, so simple, so ridiculously obvious that she nearly forgets to answer:

"What do you think, you hatter?"

His lips are on hers before the last letter leaves them. Cradling her head with one hand, pulling her to him with the other: this kiss is different from the one before; desperately enthusiastic, hot and wanting. Rose wastes no time responding, wrapping her arms around his neck and following the pull of his arm around her waist to stand on her knees, molding herself to him. The caress of his hands sends surges of electricity across her skin, the hunger of his mouth sparks pulses of lust through her body and she can't help small whimpers slipping from the back of her throat. She can feel the erratic thumps of his hearts against her own, beating as if trying to break out of its cage to meet them. There is so much material between them, that doesn't seem right. She searches for an entrance and finds the lapel of his jacket, means to pull at it but is distracted by the sudden jolt of a hand grazing past her breast on its way down to her waist. The Doctor runs light fingers along the gap between her t-shirt and sweatpants, and for a moment she considers how very unattractive she must look right now. Baggy, washed out nightwear, eyes probably still puffy and red, mussed hair. He seems to sense the thought, and pulls back to look at her with a gaze so reverent she immediately snaps out of any such crazy ponderings. She proceeds to slip his jacket off while he proceeds kissing her senseless. The jacket stops halfway down his arms since they're wrapped around her, and the Doctor reluctantly lets go with one, flailing it behind him to try to shake the sleave off without losing contact with Rose's addictive lips. The center of balance shifts, gravity discreetly latches on, the mattress wobbles and with a final wave the Doctor falls off the bed with a crash.

A moment of frozen-hearted silence passes before Rose takes her hands from her mouth and leans over the edge to look at the damage. The Doctor landed bumping his head on the nightstand, leaving one foot on the bed and is now folded in between the two, holding still while he assesses the level of injury. Rose can't hold back a burst of laughter, and only barely quenches it at the sound of his sad "Ow."

"Oh, poor Doctor", she giggles. "You alright?"

"I'm always alright", he croaks.

"Babe", she chuckles, but it doesn't sit right with either of them and she goes back to "Doctor" at once. She helps him up to sit on the bed, wraps her arms around him and as a sudden wave of tender fear strikes her asks the crook of his neck: "Don't get hurt." He pledges not to. A kiss, a nip, finally clothes go flying.

Hours later Rose sleeps, the Doctor doesn't. He watches her quietly breathe, listens to everything she is, wishes her back closer, closest,_ inside_ and when she from the edges of her dreamscape unconscious whispers his name, he knows he is lost forever.

...

...

...

* * *

A/N: Sorry about that. My gahd, those two just wouldn't get to it! References: I've no idea how the Doctor feels about Star Wars but apparently he's not keen on the music, while they both seem to like Miss Congeniality. The line "What's broken can always be fixed, What's fixed will always be broken" is stolen from Jens Lekman's Your Arms Around Me, that you should all go out and listen to because it's magic. Thank you for reading, liking, reviewing and staying awesome.


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